على قدر أهل العزم تأتي العزائم

Great deeds come to pass in exact measure to the resolve of the resolute, and noble acts arrive according to the nobility of the noble.

To the petty mind, minor troubles loom large; but to the great mind, monumental catastrophes appear small.

Sayf al-Dawla charges his army with burdens of ambition that have utterly overwhelmed the most colossal, seasoned hosts.

He demands from humanity what already lives within his own spirit, claiming a standard of greatness that even fierce lions dare not pretend to.

The oldest and most ancient desert vultures gladly sacrifice their feathers to serve as fletching for his weapons.

It matters little that birds were created without natural talons, for his swords and their hilts were forged to take their place.

Does the fortress of al-Hadath recognize its own hue, and does it know which of the two downpours has soaked it?

Bright rainclouds watered it before his arrival, but the moment he drew near, severed skulls poured down as its rain.

He built it high while lances battered against lances, with the surging waves of death crashing all around it.

It once seethed with a wild, frantic madness, but now it wears protective amulets fashioned from the corpses of the slain.

It was the quarry of hostile fate, driven away, but you forced it back into the fold of the faith with your Khatṭian spears while time fumed in defeat.

The nights strip away every single thing they take hold of, yet they remain eternal debtors for what you wrest from their hands.

When your intentions take the grammatical form of an imperfect verb, they execute themselves before any jussive particle can check them.

How can the Romans and Russians ever hope to demolish a stronghold whose foundational pillars and bases are made of lance thrusts?

They brought their cases before the battlefield where death sat as the ultimate judge; thus no innocent died and no tyrant survived.

They advanced toward you dragging sheets of iron, marching on steeds that seemed entirely devoid of legs.

When their weapons flashed, you could not tell the shining blades apart from their own identical garments and turbans.

An army whose vanguard stretched across the eastern and western horizons, rumbling with battle cries loud enough to ring in the ears of Gemini.

It gathered together every tongue and nation, so that translators alone could make their chatter intelligible.

Praise be to that fiery hour whose intense heat melted away all deceit, leaving behind only hardened warriors and fierce, unyielding champions.

Armor and lances were torn apart by forces otherwise impervious to ruin, and cowards fled the field unable to face the brave.

You stood firm where doubt of death did not exist for anyone standing, moving as though you walked safely within the slumbering eyelid of fate.

Broken, wounded champions streamed past you in defeat while your face remained radiant and your mouth broke into a smile.

You so far surpassed the limits of ordinary courage and intellect that people began to say you possessed hidden clairvoyance.

You folded their military flanks inward toward the center with such a crushing grip that both outer and inner wing feathers perished beneath it.

Delivering blows to enemy heads before victory had even arrived, pressing onward to their throats just as triumph finally made its entrance.

You held the slender Rudayni lances in such contempt that you tossed them aside, as if the very sword were scorning the spear.

Whoever seeks magnificent victory will find that its only true keys are flashing, lightweight, razor-sharp swords.

You scattered their bodies across the ridge of al-Uhaydib as lavishly as silver coins are scattered over a bride.

Your cavalry tramples high mountain bird nests, finding an overabundance of easy prey scattered all around the crags.

The newborn chicks of imperial eagles mistake your fierce, high-stepping warhorses for their own mothers returning to the eyrie.

When danger draws close, you force the enemy to slither across the barren ground on their bellies like desert vipers.

Does this Byzantine commander charge forward every single day, only to have his own retreating back berate his forward-facing face?

Does he refuse to recognize the terrifying scent of the lion until he actually tastes its wrath, when even brute beasts know that scent instantly?

The sweeping onslaughts of the Emir struck him with sudden grief, robbing him of his son, his son-in-law, and his kin.

He spent his time thanking his companions for escaping the edge of your sword, saved only because enemy heads and wrists absorbed the blows instead.

He learned to understand the grim voice of Damascene blades among his ranks, despite the fact that the speech of swords is entirely foreign.

He rejoices in the mercy you showed him, not out of foolishness, but because any plunderer who escapes your wrath counts sheer survival as victory.

You are not merely a king routing a political rival; you are the absolute force of divine unity routing polytheism itself.

The ancient clan of Adnan takes glory in you rather than Rabi'ah, and the entire world boasts of your existence, not just capital cities.

All praise is yours for the pearls of poetry whose wording is mine; you are the one who supplies the treasure while I am the jeweler who threads it.

Your generous gifts sweep me forward into the heat of battle, leaving neither of us with any cause for blame or regret.

They propel me on the back of every flying charger that leaps forward on its hooves the instant the battle cries strike its ears.

O you who are like a sword forever unsheathed, leaving no room for doubt and offering no shelter for anyone to hide behind.

Hail to the striking of enemy skulls, to glory, to majesty, to those who place their hopes in you, and to Islam—for you have returned safely.

Why should the Merciful One not protect your twin striking edges just as He always has, since splitting enemy heads is your sword's endless habit?