Conversation of the arrow and the sword

How truthfully the well-notched arrow spoke Unto the sword in heat of battletide:

“What magic lustre glitters in thy steel Like fairy dancers in the Caucasus? Thou, who canst boast in thy long ancestry Of Ali’s trusty weapon, Dhul-Faqar;

Who hast beheld the might of Khalid’s arm, Sprinkled red sunset on the head of night

Thine is the fire of God’s omnipotence, And neath thy shadow Paradise awaits.

Whether I wing in air, or lie encased Within the quiver, wheresoe’er I be I am all fire.

When from the bow I speed Towards a human breast, right well I see Into its depth,

and if it do not hold A heart unflawed, unvisited by thoughts Of terror or despair

swiftly my point Plucks it asunder, and I spread it o’er With surging gore for shift.

But if that breast Serenely throb with a believer’s heart And glow reflective to an inward light,

My soul is turned to water by its flame, My shafts fall soft as the innocuous dew.”