Sunday, July 6, 2014


بين الشوارع صوت بيحوم 
لقبوه عبدو المظلوم 
قالوا مرة كان مغروم 
بأرملة من بيت سلوم 

قبرت قلبها والمرحوم 
ونكرت صوته للمظلوم 
عبدو يللي كان مغروم 
قرر عن الحب يصوم 

نسوان الحي مصمودين 
ببيوت رجالها المخمورين 
شوفي يا جارة شوفي مين
 اجا يغني ها المسكين 

وبيتدلوقوا محمومين 
على الشارع مصفوفين 
بإنتظار عبدو المسكين 
ليغني بصوته الحزين 

ورد خذي ورد يا ورد 
ورد أحلى ورد يا ورد 
ما إلو أريج هل ورد 

دونك يا ورد يا ورد 

Around the city roams a voice
Said to be that of 'Abdo the doomed'
Who fell rather hard, without a choice,
For a widow from the house of Salloum

In his song, she heard but clamor
The grave claimed both her man and heart.
Abdo who was once enamored
Renounced his love and fell apart.

All the town's women like prisoners in houses,
Owned by their miserably drunken spouses
Call at each other: 'Look who it is!'
'He’s come to sing that sad song of his!'

Suddenly, frenzied, like cats in heat
The women all line up on the streets
Waiting for ‘Abdo the doomed’ to appear
And sing that song they yearn to hear:

‘Roses, have some roses, my rose
Roses, the finest of roses, my rose
What sorcery renders all roses scentless
But a heart that finds itself alone and loveless.’