How can I quit this mountain land, where my sires are interred in rocks; my exile from this land so dear, is full of anguish, pain and shocks?

From Eternal Dawn you are abode of kestrel, hawk and birds of prey: There rose and tulip do not grow, nor Warbles nightingale so gay.

Your paths that twist and turn on bills give Eden's pleasure to my sight your clay emits an ember smell; your sparkling streams look bright in light.

The kingly hawk can hot become a thrall to pheasant or a dove; how can a man destroy his soul for his clay-born body's love?

O zealous Faqr, let me know what is your verdict and firm intent: Would you prefer the British robe, or your shirt, thread-bare, torn and rent?