What the writer Maroun Abboud wrote about the Druze

They mentioned the Druze, so I said a deep-rooted generation, Reason is their religion and loyalty is pledged.

Truthfulness is their law; if you make a covenant with them, they fulfill it, and if they speak of a matter, they are truthful.

The disposition of lions whenever their sanctuary is touched, and the generosity of Hatim al-Tai if you knock on their door.

Their chivalry is complete; if you call upon them, they fly to you in flowing throngs.

They crouched at the gate of the East, the best of lions protecting the den, so where is the speckled one compared to them?

Their swords sang anthems that stirred the heart of Arabism, and the East grew mighty.

When the white turbans march into battle, the space turns hot, and every elder is a banner.

Their youth faces the masses with their fires, and their swords are like sparkling stars.

Their faces glow when you meet them, and you would think them genies when they are surrounded.

If you are asked about the Druze, say they are a people who have a rationale for every situation.

If you provoke them, say the hope is lost; reason binds, but swords are released.

They draw inspiration for righteousness in their solitude, ascetic, and if they stray, they seek forgiveness.

Their knights have never fallen short of any goal, so ask their history and you will be certain.

The Arab blood runs in their veins, pure and authentic, and the proof is their logic.

Why should their roots and branches not be preserved, while the door is closed in the face of creation?

They are the people of the long mountain, its peaks, they settled its highlands and clung to its summits.

The winds tumble down from its sides, and the lightning slips off its peaks.

They took refuge in it for protection, and once it became a fortress for them, they grew mighty and excelled.

They rallied together as a group protecting its honor, and its sovereignty was guarded by beating hearts.

If it is exposed to intruders, they thunder, and if a hand points toward it, they flash like lightning.

Twenty-seven years have passed in their shadow; to God be their lofty, leafy shade.

If I say 'my kin,' it is loyalty dictating to me, so there is no flattery there.

For I am their fellow citizen by their grace, and the Druze, the precursors, know the meaning of grace.

Their belief has made death easy for them, so their bodies are but a legacy that perishes.

If you shake, you shake a pliant spear, and if you draw, you draw a sword that splits.

And if an intruder acts like a tiger, they shout at him: 'Rejoice, for the sword is alive and provided for.'

We are those for whom death is trivial; the soul remains while the garment is torn.