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My country, welcome, my country, a thousand greetings to you from the heart My country, welcome, my country Our chests protect you from enemies My country, I am a country of people whose first and foremost heritage is the Book of God, a drawn horse, and a sharpened sword, beside which is a shield. The two horses ride at night with the bewildered, and an old man in the seclusion, and how many palm trees blow over the cliffs of the Saab, and a milking cow that is harmed, and a water-carrier that wakes up. The night with the dawn The night cries and pours tears into its streams Numbing in my country, peace... numbness Drinking the water of the Nile, ululating in the valleys The crops of my country, the plains of my country, the fields of my country Paradise is for those who see it or for those who go out in it, they hear The country of people honors the guest And even the bird comes hungry And from the edges of its vineyards, it is full Without me, I carry the people, all the people And a wide berth in my goodness is enough for us And the waters of the Nile flow on the valleys, the whiteness of silver in the glow Migration is ugly, my country, the country of deals and tambourines, and houses that mourn at night, and girls who imitate horses, young men like my grandfather, the reel and the cubs, who were not on the road, and the farewell of my country, a country of history, from Tarhaqa, not at Misna... Horses and armor are begging you, my country is safety, my country is compassion, and its people are compassionate, they wipe away the tears of the bereaved, they crawl home, they die for the rights of the neighbor, they cross the fire for the sake of a tear, and how would the situation be if they saw it flowing Tears?! My people, my people, they start to show off to others, dividing the food among you and giving you provisions even if you end up starving. My people, my people, my people, Al-Baqif in the house, in the middle of the house. I get up and say to myself, the whole world, my people, Arabs mixed with the hot blood of Negroes. My people, my people, my tribe, when I search for a way to separate myself from the rest, separate the companions of my soul and feelings and travel the seas. Shawgham, my mind has been wandering for a long time, I say some... I find them seeping into the paths of the soul, they have become my whole being... These are my people, a place I would have accepted to meet... With me... With me like my shadow, as if I had not come from such places, my regrets, my sorrows, and my humiliation. Imagine how things would be if I were not Sudanese and the people of the neighborhood were not my people?? Imagine how things would be?