Ruler, ruler
This is a time of shame
A prisoner lives in a state of death
Our nation has no decision
Our nation is toyed left and right
We hope for Salah al-Din
We revolve in our tragedies
Until we become dizzy
But there is no choice
Our death is above the small sword
Until the thorns become a thick fire
We are certain, Ruler, of the burning of the journey
For victory is under the sword
And the path is above the river
This, in brief, is a poem of apology
For a nation numbering a billion
That has no decision