1. No true arrow shot by skilled hands,
Bound tight with string in practiced grip,

2. Has feathers like those arrows I body-pierce,
And blade as keen as swordsman’s whip,

3. Against a hunter’s mound you stood, your reins—
Old weathered leather, and your saddle old.

4. Near dead from my small arrows on the day
I shot you through unbroken window holes.

5. Our tribe divided, some remained while some
Departed, journeying on their way.

6. If I were weak, my secret would be known,
But I'm too proud for that, I cannot say.

7. As though we'd never warred, if only you
Could know, O Buthaina, you my friend.