The sun was born here
to bake the clay,
to dry the salt,
and to stir the ocean-blue.

It saturates the deep valleys
and penetrates the rolling hills.
It fills the streets with joy.

The sun does not burn.
It does not scorch.
It cleanses
and it heals.
It washes away
the scars of the past:
the wars,
the hatred,
and the bloodshed.

This beloved city
to muse upon—
from ancient times
to now—
is enlightened
by this magnificent orb.

People run into the streets.
“L’Chaim!” they chant.
“Bismillah!” they sing.
Divided they may fall,
but united they stand
when they are beneath
His light.