Spain

Treasure the Muslim blood,
That sancitified thy soil;
Thou art pure and holy,
Like the holy precincts.

Buried in thy dust are imprints
Of heads that bowed in prayer,
And thy breeze at dawn
Echoes the sound of azan.

Their tents had awakened
Life in the distant hills;
Their spears had sparkled
Like stars in the firmament.

The Muslim will not be crushed
Under the weight of straw,
Though the ebb of time has reduced
The force of his flaming fire.

Granada, the eye of the world.
In the twilight of time,
Pierces the heart that bleeds
For glories that are no more.