How can I quit this mountain land,
Where my sires are interred in rocks
My exile from this land so dear,
Is full of anguish, pain and shocks?
From Eternal Dawn You are abode
Of kestrel, hawk and birds of prey:
There rose and tulip do not grow,
Nor Warbles nightingale so gay.
Your paths that twist and turn on bills
Give Eden's pleasure to my sight
Your clay emits an ember smell,
Your sparkling streams look bright in light.
The kingly hawk can hot become
A thrall to pheasant or a dove
How can a man destroy his soul
For his clay-born body's love?
O zealous Faqr, let me know what
Is your verdict and firm intent:
Would you prefer the British robe,
Or your shirt, thread-bare, torn and rent?