We are fighters against the sudden turns of fate; never, through all time, has an eye of ours shed a tear for the slain.
We are the sons of war: no word fails our tongues, nor do we flinch at the havoc that war unleashes.
Sons of war that we are—when we prevail we do not lapse into coarse abuse, and when its claws rake us we utter no complaint.
We were a blazing meteor whose heat men feared; those nearby stepped aside, yet its flame still seared.
You vaunted yourself over me, Ibn al-Zubʿarā, but a pursuer set out in the last watch of night is close upon your trail.
Go ask among the noblest houses of Maʿadd and beyond: who among mankind bears a more disgraced and hideous standing than you?
War has left that man no boast to cling to; on the day of dread his very cheek was pressed into the dust.
By Allah’s power and His victory we charged you, the spear-points levelled and bristling.
The lances wheeled upon you again and again, their shafts like the draw-ropes of water-skins, the water within them sloshing to and fro.
We made straight for the standard-bearers—and for anyone whose heart soars at the banner’s mention, for such a one is quickest to claim renown.
Yet they betrayed after giving their pledged hand and fell apart; Allah would permit nothing but His own decree, and He is the best of planners.