Spain! You are the trustee of the Muslim blood: In my eyes you are sanctified like the Harem.

Prints of prostration lie hidden in your dust; silent calls to prayers in your morning air.

In your hills and vales were the tents of those; the tips of whose lances were bright like the stars.

Is more henna needed by your pretties? My lifeblood can give them some colour!

How can a Muslim be put down by the straw and grass; even if his flame has lost its heat and fire!

My eyes watched Granada as well, but the traveller’s content neither in journey nor in rest:

I saw as well as showed, I spoke as well as listened; neither seeing nor learning brings calm to the heart!