We have mingled blood with flowing tears, and there is no room left in us for pity. To shed tears is a man’s worst weapon when the swords stir up the embers of war. Sons of Iskim, behind you are battles in which heads rolled at your feet. Dare you slumber in the blessed shade of safety, where life is as soft as an orchard flower? How can the eye sleep between the lids at a time of disasters that would waken any sleeper? While your Syrian brothers can only sleep on the backs of their chargers, or in vultures’ bellies! Must the foreigners feed on our ignominy, while you trail behind you the train of a pleasant life, like men whose world is at peace? When blood has been spilt, when sweet girls must for shame hide their lovely faces in their hands! When the white swords’ points are red with blood, and the iron of the brown lances is stained with gore! At the sound of sword hammering on lance young children’s hair turns white. This is war, and the man who shuns the whirlpool to save his life shall grind his teeth in