The long body of the Makh-ula River
meanders, rumbles, 
leaps from rock to rock
like a fugitive
(not choosing a straight course). 
It weaves around the downhill bends,
rushes uphill,
runs homeless with the night,
like two lunatics. 

It has flowed a long time on this path,
joined many streams.
Nobody cares for it. 
It’s busy making voiceless songs,
and has fallen from the eyes of the people,
on the outskirts of these ruins. 

The wordless singing of its water
brings Makh-ula’s messages of friendship,
speaking of its certain destination, 
though it takes
any path that it crosses, 
like one stranger coming upon another.

Meanders and rumbles 
towards a resting place,
like an exile banished from his home.