Hamza was a simple man
like the others in my hometown
simple, well-meaning,
eating bread baked from the hands of toil.

When I met him the other day,
this land was wearing a cloak of mourning
in windless silence.
And I was feeling defeated.
But Hamza-the-ordinary said:

‘Be steadfast, my sister, don’t weaken!
Our land has a throbbing heart,
It never stops to beat,
And it endures the unendurable.
It keeps the secrets of hills in its wombs.
This land which sprouts palm trees and wheat
Is also the land that
Gives birth to a freedom-fighter.
This land, my sister, is a woman!
This land, my sister, is a woman!’