Your grandson threw a pebble to his student, and he sucked it, and if the tongues of the world are in his mouth, he understands it and memorizes it, so what is your excuse, exhausted one, when you heard us shouting, and we tell you to “go back”.
So what did you fear for our small hearts, which tasted a fear much greater than the terror of chasing children for us? The wailing followed us, and the footprints of your sandal were traced on the sand, and we did not want to leave us, for in the mosque is the worst of God’s creation, and whoever does not deserve to see your face will strike your bald head and turn your gray hair.
Marginal geese in the history books, but we shouted, a small nail near us, but it did not stop your dress, this wounding steel, it did not stop you, and its father did not move the shield to stand between your feet and your shoes, and we hoped that the soul would pass through your hands.
Those that make the knights in vain, to pass on our soft feathers, O you who have not eaten geese, O brother of wheat and dates! Your cracked hands, the impact of the farming, passed us by, and we were no longer geese, and our vague voice wanted to wake up the sleepers, that your speaking Qur’an is heading to its death.
We have no excuse, like the excuse of the Simargh birds, we have no wing to fly away from this land in grief, and we were not old enough to stop you, we are too small than the gate of Khaybar that did not stop you.
The day will pass, and the wailing will follow us, but a scratch will remain in our voice forever, until our descendants, after hundreds, walk alongside the lion and the predators with faith, because some of you at that time will be.
A long and successive sound will come out of our throat, O Imam whom God and His Messenger love, and the geese too.
So what did you fear for our small hearts, which tasted a fear much greater than the terror of chasing children for us? The wailing followed us, and the footprints of your sandal were traced on the sand, and we did not want to leave us, for in the mosque is the worst of God’s creation, and whoever does not deserve to see your face will strike your bald head and turn your gray hair.
Marginal geese in the history books, but we shouted, a small nail near us, but it did not stop your dress, this wounding steel, it did not stop you, and its father did not move the shield to stand between your feet and your shoes, and we hoped that the soul would pass through your hands.
Those that make the knights in vain, to pass on our soft feathers, O you who have not eaten geese, O brother of wheat and dates! Your cracked hands, the impact of the farming, passed us by, and we were no longer geese, and our vague voice wanted to wake up the sleepers, that your speaking Qur’an is heading to its death.
We have no excuse, like the excuse of the Simargh birds, we have no wing to fly away from this land in grief, and we were not old enough to stop you, we are too small than the gate of Khaybar that did not stop you.
The day will pass, and the wailing will follow us, but a scratch will remain in our voice forever, until our descendants, after hundreds, walk alongside the lion and the predators with faith, because some of you at that time will be.
A long and successive sound will come out of our throat, O Imam whom God and His Messenger love, and the geese too.