When the dust of battle billows, night itself seems to rise,
while the flutter of your standards is lightning—and you the full moon, with the whole crowded sky your court (1).

A conquest followed hard upon a conquest,
as though a sky had opened, its brilliant stars appearing one by one.

How many strongholds, whether yielding or resisting, you have trodden underfoot (2)—
long ages had passed them by while they still stood inviolate, maiden-pure (3).

You poured into the task a resolve so fierce that, were it not for the awe
that modesty cast upon her, the fortress would have hurried to you unasked, without a bridal price.

You aimed at a sanctuary within the Romans’ citadel that no one else had ever gained,
for its sheer cliffs deceived them—and so they were deceived (4).

They secretly allied themselves to mask the harm they meant,
yet in the end secrecy and open deed came to the same.

You turned upon them a resolve which, had you aimed it at the sea,
would have made the ebb overpower its flood.

That Roman fortress whose keys you seized—great though it is—
is nothing but a bridge to victories still beyond.

It is merely the vanguard of the triumphs yet to come,
like the dawn that glimmers on the horizon before the sun appears (5).

You descended on it at daybreak with an army fair as a blooming meadow:
its sabers rushing rivers, its lances bright blossoms.

You surged—nay, like a sea whose waves are flashing blades,
whose lean chargers are ships and whose helmets lustrous pearls.

You moved westward—nay, like the night itself: its curved swords crescents,
and its arrows glittering stars.

I was mistaken—rather, it is like the day whose suns are
your radiant face, whose late-afternoon glow your yellow banners (6).

They are Turkish lions whose jungles are spear-thickets;
each day upon the heights of triumph they grow another claw.

So close are their ranks that not even the wind (7)
can thread its way between them, nor can a drop of rain fall upon their heads.

They are watchful eyes (8); when grim war stands forth
to be courted, they bid for her with their very lives—no dowry is too dear (9).

You see death fastened to the fringes of their arrows
whenever the bow lets them fly and fierce eyes glare askance (10).

On every saddle sways a slender, willow-like rider (11),
and every bow he bends is drawn by an arm bright as a full moon.