- silence

- Music

- Here, stones bloom like roses,

- the smell of history floats

- and spreads through men’s clever hands.

- Here, a lot of kings sleep,

- witty vendors, competent workers

- and beautiful women.

- Here, ancestors’ spirits sleep

- on the edge of the stones, the caves and the temples.

- Here, it’s Petra.

- The protectors of beauty passed through the slit of this old mountain,

- and they dug their place with their hands,

- leaving behind their smells in the caves and the hiding places

- and their steams in the alleys.

- Here they are, the palace and the monastery,

- and here their voices and songs

- are in the corners of the stones.

- My Lord King Al-Hareth,

- here are your protectors, in Arnoun and Gaza,

- who celebrate the Arabic reign which resists the Romans.

- Here are your children from Ayla to Basra

- building their large state,

- and here are the Nabateans who guide their caravans in every direction.

- Music

- My Lord King Al-Hareth,

- here is Damascus opening wide her arms

- so that you rule it and so that you raise the Arab flag

- high above its surrounding walls,

- so that you can face Rome, a tenacious and proud opponent.

- My King Obada

- and you, soldiers, men and horses,

- what is the nature of this kingdom who wrote its history on stones?

- My Lord King Al-Hareth 4th,

- surnamed “the one who loves his people”.

- And who are those people who extract life from the desert,

- made their gardens in the rocks

- and planted a nice rose called Petra.

- Music