On the threshold of your city I sat down‎,‎ writing poems Abiatha‎,‎ and prose systems Maqamat‎,‎ and the lines of Mawail offers‎.‎A song in your hair‎,‎ a poem prose in my country‎,‎ and each of you his property‎,‎ and I do not know what my fate‎.‎Oh poems of my hair abandoned‎,‎ Oh fragments of the words scattered ‎.‎‎.‎ Where Abbit‎?‎I do not know what I want‎!‎ Ojibe Patok longing brings me to my distant homeland‎,‎ my country near‎,‎ I was my joy and my grief‎,‎ my strength and my weakness‎,‎ my journey and refuge‎,‎ what do you do‎,‎ O spring of nostalgia‎,‎ and developed the years of a man of sixty years‎,‎ his hand hit a tremor did not come from time to time‎?‎O dance of the drummer‎,‎ and support of the Mughar‎,‎ and whatever the will of fate‎,‎ my life is a woman weakened‎,‎ and the heart of my homeland‎,‎ and my feelings confused between them‎.‎Lost home and put with him ‎.‎‎.‎ But I saw that Azdlf with the letter to reach me to the safety net and safety in a wild wilderness ‎.‎‎.‎Here is the river in front of me‎,‎ near my house and your house‎,‎ here I sat with you and Nizar‎.‎