1. Ali brought the people of Sunday to the sword-blades;

    How many a Friday congregation was held by his host!

  2. And his dusky spears spent the night drunken, spewing blood,

    Having grown drunk on draughts drawn from his cups.

  3. When he advances upon a renegade army, and laughter plays

    On the faces of the sword-blades amid his dust and frown,

  4. Its fallen bodies crowd the earth’s breasts,

    And because of them, its horizons choke on their souls.

  5. And the naked sky dons its black sackcloth,

    Even if led in wedding procession amid its moons and suns.

  6. A young man whose year of bounty is his forbearance’s envoy;

    If that avails not, an hour of his severity wears the foe down.

Sol 6.1