And when I arrive near her whose eyes are languishing,
Alone, in the midst of peril, patient and immovable,
He champs his bit until my return.
By the head of the Prophet, this horse is the resource of caravans,
The ornament of a tent, and the honour of my tribe.
I am an Arab. I know how to command and to combat,
My name protects the feeble and the afflicted,
My flocks are the reserve of the poor,
And the stranger in my tent is named The Welcome One.
The Almighty hath loaded me with his gifts,