Bechara El Khoury
O, jihad the glory has been Clapping to you
Ask the sublimity and time, however, they can discuss.
Do we guard not our promise one day since they know us?
The chivalries that we are inherited still flourish.
Burst forth on our blood yet they do not finish.
Say to John Paul if you blame him—
You will call us, but we will not attend.
We wreak the wrath inside his chest.
After we are thirsty, look what he waters us!
When he calls us, we respond immediately.
Behind our back, we left the religion sanctity.
The desert clamors and complains its nakedness.
Soon we attire it with roaring and plentiful smokiness.
Since we had irrigated it our blood honorably—
It was sure that we had highborn ancestor certainly.
The glory laughs cheerfully when it seeing us.
Our banner has coloured of our champions' blood.
Wedding of the freemen is to water their enemy—
Bloody fill up cups with sadly tones.
We ride upon death for the sake of pact obligatory.
On which our allies violate it offensively.
Is it justice on their side?
We sustain for the sake of victor and others gain its fruit!
As long as the memory flashes back to their mind—
They embellish their speech repeatedly by stalling and deception.
The only fault we commit as long as the time passes difficult!
We devote faithfully to our trustworthy man but lastly he betrays.
O, Jihad the glory has been flapping to you cheerfully.
The deception does not paint it, but the purple colour of our blood.
The honour that Palestine claims it is laudable.
Mostly it is on pioneer, yet it is not reachable
The wound bleeds through its forehead continuously.
Our lips are kneeling to kiss it devotedly.
Moaning, which the intimate discourse reveals loudly.
It is pure Arabic origin our eyeballs sipping it painfully.
O, Palestine, as long as we suffer your painfulness.
We are about to forget our sorrow and our sadness.
O, sister still we are on our mothers breast promise.
Once and again, her pure milk we nurse.
Jerusalem and Medina both are our holy Land.
All Arab blood flows in our veins from Tripoli to Baghdad.
It is the honour for us when our souls taste the death proudly.
Never have we submitted to each disgrace or each ignominy.
Rose from our blood we put on his hand.
If the fire burns it, neither it becomes sad.
Spread your horror disgracefully and wanton
You will find neither coward man nor woman.
The incidences promote us once and again affectively.
As long as the violence increase but our soul still lively.
The (Dotishy) scolds your backs stung after stung.
He challenges you by either sword or tongue.
He is your equal foe; take your revenge from him.
God protects us and we ask Him the peace.
Stand up to greet our champions' wound and touches it honorably.
Our hands maybe become blessing by this touching possibly.
Awake to abstain one day from food for their sake.
The donation of the Easter day is alike to Ramadan.
The way of self-determination, they die for its sake.
It is the same line that we must follow its track.
Bechara El Khoury's Other Poems
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
Poet's Notes about The Poem
Comments about this poem (O, jihad the glory has been Clapping to you by Bechara El Khoury )
- Oracle, Naveed Khalid
- Stand high, hasmukh amathalal
- Amidst the stones, Roann Mendriq
- Rainbow Of Life, david kush
- CRYSTAL WATER, Prince Lartey
- Beholden, Eleonor Santiago
- Faith and hope, gajanan mishra
- You're, Angela Wybrow
- HE touched and the life bloomed, Ruma Chaudhuri
- Different colors, hasmukh amathalal
Poem of the Day
- 04 Tongues Made Of Glass, Shaun Shane
- Daffodils, William Wordsworth
- Invictus, William Ernest Henley
- The Road Not Taken, Robert Frost
- At Last She Comes, Robert Louis Stevenson
- Phenomenal Woman, Maya Angelou
- Still I Rise, Maya Angelou
- Annabel Lee, Edgar Allan Poe
- If, Rudyard Kipling
- All the World's a Stage, William Shakespeare
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
- Heather Burns
William Carlos Williams
(17 September 1883 – 4 March 1963)
(9 November 1928 – 4 October 1974)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(15 April 1958)
(3rd April 19sixty)