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.’