Conversation of the arrow and the sword
How truthfully the well-notched arrow spoke Unto the sword in heat of battletide:
“What magic lustre glitters in thy steel Like fairy dancers in the Caucasus? Thou, who canst boast in thy long ancestry Of Ali’s trusty weapon, Dhul-Faqar;
Who hast beheld the might of Khalid’s arm, Sprinkled red sunset on the head of night
Thine is the fire of God’s omnipotence, And neath thy shadow Paradise awaits.
Whether I wing in air, or lie encased Within the quiver, wheresoe’er I be I am all fire.
When from the bow I speed Towards a human breast, right well I see Into its depth,
and if it do not hold A heart unflawed, unvisited by thoughts Of terror or despair
swiftly my point Plucks it asunder, and I spread it o’er With surging gore for shift.
But if that breast Serenely throb with a believer’s heart And glow reflective to an inward light,
My soul is turned to water by its flame, My shafts fall soft as the innocuous dew.”