مِصْرُ الشَّرْقِ تَتَقَوَّعْ
حَبْرَتِي مِنْ أَمْرِكَ تَدْمَغُ
عَلَى رُفَاتٍ مَجْدٍ وَجُنُونٍ تَتَرَنَّحُ
كُنْتٍ وَمَا زِلْنَا
وَمَا الْأَسْطُورَةُ إِلَّا آهَاتٌ تُخْرِقُ
لَا دُمْتِ مَا دَامُوا
فَمَنْتَفِعُ صَهْبَوْنَ تَمَزَّقُ
It curls into itself,
that old shell of the East.
Your state leaked my confusion.
You stagger on the rubble,
a grandeur gone mad.
We are what stayed.
And the myth? Just scorched breath,
a story that burns.
Stay as long as they do,
the profiteer of Zion eventually frays.
