The Earth

The earth belongs to the one who walks on its shoulders,
Embracing his solitude,
Feeding its fertile mouth,
And drawing upon its face a garden,
Within his palms dwells trees,
thate are all the languages ​​of the world.
The earth belongs to the one who sits in the shade,
Devining that the palm tree is adorned with the robe of a prophet,
And to the one who goes out at dawn,
Searching for a star that fled yesterday evening,
From a twilight that wronged him without a care.
The earth is a song,
That only overflows with birds at the shrine of a martyr,
Who left the tent to drink from the water of the battle,
When he sensed a wind carrying Tatars
In it are the traits of the stone standing in the heat,
The desert's lote tree accustomed to fearing it.
I say to you:
The earth is ours,
And so it has always been,
Not for anyone else.