Itij - The Sun

The sun is rising
Followed by the crescent
It shines on days of misfortune
That make us shiver
My body burns on coals
My heart suffocates in its prison
O master, Sir Slimane
Sculptor of the word

Happy is my father who knew you
By your art you have blessed him
When his heart was ill
Yourt sweet voice healed him

You never betrayed the poor
Your neither stole, nor killed
In exile you sang the pain of your fate
In the tongue of your country
It is injustice who pronounced
That in exile you should be buried.

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