Had you put thy words into deeds,
The road to Jerusalem would've been eased.
Behold Samarkand and Tooledo out there!
Behold the remains of glory at Carthage!
Outcrying: Oh, the offspring of Arabia!
Rather than heal our wounds, you wounded more.
Letters, inarticulate, remain speechless;
And blood the veins turned colourless.
Oh, Iraq! Harmony at Home has been raped;
And Grace at battles deflowered.
All lions, so stunned that the wolves
At the lambs howled and howled.
Say I, my boy: Whereof hath people's power gone?
Justice the throne has wickedly left;
And the State under hooves shamefully bent.
No ruling tyranny to survival is destined;
Not even Hajjaj's ill-reputed tyranny,
Driven by a Prince's blissful wishes and agony.
The Prince oft declares: "I'm the pharaoh of all",
Flatteringly all jesters joyfully get around,
And witted words for the Mahraja abound.
When flocking to his shrine,
Well-being prayers were done,
And precious gifts, placed in hand, was fun.
My goodness! This is your prince and crown:
Generously offer him a silky gown;
Sing him a ballad in praise;
For once delighted by rhyme & rhythm,
He'd be taken by amaze;
Pour him a sip of Arabian coffee,
And let your drums please his ears.
Tell him his subjects are safe and sound,
And all sleepless eyes are all around.
Wait for the galloping horses of death:
The foe's raids your Home demand,
The blades into the Prince's chest abound,
And witnesses thy be over his rotten flesh.
Why not ask Tariq's fleets,
Sailing the troubled Mediterranean?
Why not ask Ommayads' armies, whose drums
Persia's tough gates listened to their beats?
Why not ask Haroon Arrashid's conquest,
Which turned wide open those bolted gates?
Why not ask Saladdin's counter-attack,
Whose victory was hailed across Egypt & Iraq?
The Arab sovereignty away had died,
Only when rulers Ahmed's wisdom denied.
Recall that whoever followed the Prophet's suit,
Did find refuge and serenity in his pursuit.
How come, Oh, Arab nation?!
Factions, our heritage, meant to abolish;
Some are guided, but mislead, by chiefs,
While others turned into killers and thieves.
Every sect is but a slave to a master,
Whose gangs are but butchers of their tyrant.
And the helpless masses are no more than herds,
Whose lord, like a dog, devours their chicken.
The west watches the roasting scene of the masses,
Waiting for the dish to be served.
The smell, irresistible, led the barges into the sea,
Stationed gunfire around the fences,
And helped fuel the jets hovering in the sky.
Yeah! You have to welcome Phantoms & Mirages!
