The Sacred Festival"

Certainly. Here is the English translation of the text, rendered with literary elegance, spiritual nuance, and full respect for the poetic depth and rhythm of the original Arabic:

Eid is not what the days hold, but what grips time by its side until it trembles. It is not a moment, but a planet that lights up within language, from which poems are born as suns emerge from the mouth of nothingness. Children are not merely children, but the clay of joy at its dawn; their eyes do not see—they radiate. Their feet do not walk—they plant movement in the ground until the sidewalks bloom. Swings are not made of iron, but circles of light etched with laughter, wide enough to hold emptiness until it turns into singing air. Streets do not know walking—they remember the rhythm of steps as the heart remembers its own beats. And minarets do not proclaim the takbir—they create it, like a field of light ascending without a voice, then falling as rain made of tranquility. Clothes are not bought—they grow their colors from within the soul. Sweets are not made—they are resurrected, offered from an unseen hand, melting what sorrow remains on the tongue. Poems grow envious—for this Eid cannot be described, only worshipped. Eid is not something we reach—it is what sees us, when the senses of deferred light finally awaken within us.

~Firas Alwaily