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Updated: May 22, 2025
A fire burns at the bottom of my heart, For love has conquered me, and I am now His hostage and his prisoner. My soul Is torn out from my body, and sweet sleep Keeps far aloof from my tired eyelids' need. 'Tis Aycha causes this, the pretty one. With blackest eyes, Aycha the pure, from whom I'm parted now, whose name is finest gold. Why? why? Oh, tell me, El Mannoubyya.
Awaiting thy fair image I'm consumed, I am exhausted. Why, El Mannoubyya? I long have hoped to see thee, O my sweet. And ever farther off appears the end Of my awaiting. All my nights are passed In cries for thee, as some poor mariner Cries to the angry floods that dash aloft. For thee I'm mad with love, my pretty one, Struck with thy mien so full of nobleness.
For thou said'st to me, "I'll draw thee from the sea of thy despair." I worship at thy sanctuary, sweet, My beauty, with large eyes of darkest night. Why? why? El Mannoubyya, tell me why. Let thyself bend and call thy servitor, Inhabitant of Tunis city green. I will apologize and come to thee, O cruel one, with heavy frontlets dark. We've heard the story of thy deeds so fine.
Si Alimed Khoudja, greatest bard Of all that time, has said: "I wrote these words The year one thousand one hundred just, But thou who read'st these lines, where'er it be, Add to these numbers, after ninety-eight." Now I salute all those united here And him who hates me here I steep in scorn. Why? why? El Mannoubyya! Why?
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