O radiant Lily of the East!
Your myriad wounds of the yesteryears have now waned
Yet, those infinite memorials of your dimness are penned
Those scars, those wrinkles and the leftovers of the beast
Shall all remain as a token of your splendour and bravery
O Rose of the East! Oblivious to your scars and wounds,
I have only known your eminent annual Strawberry Feast
Until the musk-rose of Rusicada ingrained you within me
And I soon embraced thee! I soon embraced thy grounds
Homesick to Collo’s sweet-scented zephyr unreasonably
As if I have once dwelled in that soft transcendent village
Is it your daughter’s charm or am I haunted reasonlessly?
Your valuable earth shall not be down to ravage or pillage
O venerated city of Algeria!
The Martyrs of August shall reside in our soul and memory
For their intrepid martyrdom is our mere reclaim of dignity.
Rusicada, the Fort of France, Philippeville or simply Skikda
Beyond -and regardless of- those appelations of your history
Oneness with thyself -and us- shall remain like a soft remedy
Or like a soothing therapy to stitch the immedicable damage
Of all that disarray and melancholy brought by the adversary.
Sparrows from Hippone presently, and blithely, chant to thee
A hallowed soft hymn to venerate our East-ness in harmony
Never have I been infatuated with another city like Rusicada
Save the magnificent Daisy of the West- the African Grenada.