With a Damascene face, through it I was seeing, The eyelids of Sheba and the neck of Sucad once more. How strange is history, how is it to me returning? A beautiful granddaughter, from my pedigree of yore. And Umayyad, with flags lifted high, flying, Their horses streaming by, unnumbered they pour. Granada! Seven centuries awoke from slumbering, In her eyes, after the clothing of sleep they wore. Are you a Spaniard? I asked her enquiring, She said: Granada is the city where I was bore. Two soft black eyes in perfect frames enticing, Generating after-effects from the past ages afore. After touring the Alhambra Palace in Granada with a beautiful Andalusian guide, the Syrian poet Nizar Qabbani wrote: At the entrance of Alhambra was our meeting, How sweet is a rendezvous not thought of before.
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