Wilt thou not hear, my brother, my appeal,
At dawn and every evening's soft reveal?
Art thou not sister, daughter of one womb?
This mother's tenderness fills all my room.
Wilt thou not call to mind her tenderness,
And my devotion, loyalty's excess?
Her testament to us was ever clear:
Protect the bond of brethren from despair.
How often did she say, and say again,
O brother, sister is thy garden's rain.
Hast thou forgotten? How canst thou forget
A mother's tenderness without regret?
Here on the riverbank my spirit turns
To playgrounds of our childhood—dawn that burns.
Hast thou forgot the Nile's familiar shore,
Where we played on its golden sands of yore?
Those sands so often listened to our song,
And there I left my hardship and my wrong.
Hast thou forgot a tune the bell would ring,
From happiness that I to thee would bring?
Hast thou forgotten? How, O brother dear,
A memory whose fragrance still is near?
O precious brother, when I felt at last
That thou hadst left thy brethren in the past,
The house of motherhood restored our bond,
A covenant of mercy beyond fond.
Hast thou beheld the moon in lofty height,
Like moon that glories in the depth of night?
Who, tell me, whispered exile to thy ear,
That harmed me in my loneliness and fear?
Is it a woman? I know well her part—
God is enough against the fool's sharp dart.
Once thou wert fountain of all noble deeds,
A stream for thy sister in her needs.
Thou overflowed with kindness, gentle care,
Dispelling grief and every weight of care.
Thou raised a beacon for the arts sublime,
Healing the hearts that hatred's sorrow chime.
Thou madest happy all thy company,
Of every race that lives in purity.
Hast thou forgot all this—and who has led
Thee, Anwar, from thy kin's affection's bed?
Hast thou forgot thy sister-soul—who am
I, who so oft gave all my love's full dram?
How I caressed thee with contentment's wine,
With love, O Anwar—hast thou forgot mine?
Or did I not exalt thy name on high,
And raise thy stature nearer to the sky?
Alas my soul—how cheap our bond became!
Alas—we are as strangers now, in shame.
Once I was armour that thou donned with pride,
When disaster's touch thou wouldst abide.
Dost thou walk roses in a garden fair,
While Jamila burns in desert's glaring air?
Can brother thus forget his sister's face,
Whom thou madest light in darkness' space?
Hast thou forgot Jamila, O Anwar?
If true—how long my anguish shall endure!
Tell me, by God—how dost thou leave me then,
When sister stands for joy and sorrow's pen?
I call upon my God with all my plea,
That storms of fate may never injure thee.
I pray my Maker keep thee from all ill,
From every evil and from every ill.
For thee, my brother, and for those who broke
Old loyalty and friendship's sacred yoke,
I pray and pray that happiness may find
Thee—and in patience is my peace of mind.
From life's reality
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