Classic Poem

Until the Sovereign has cut off many heads,
How will the plains and mountains of his land become quiet?
Either others will at your own door mourn your death,
Or they must weep for those slaughtered at your hand.
He that finds fault with thy rule leave him not in thy country;
Be thou quit of him, by gold, or treachery, or by force of arms.
Such as is accomplished by the sword, the arrow, or the spear,
A hundred-fold is gained by skill and by strategy.
Slain be thy son and brother, for the security of thy kingdom,
And closely be thy rivals all guarded in thy jails.
Beside the water of the sword, no other streams are there
Which cool the fevered blood of those that seek for war.
The tree of a Chief's Sovereignty well watered
By the blood of his enemies bears fair fruit.
On the battle-field it is good that bleeding heads should be lying;
Far better that, than that their hearts should be filled with ill-blood.
Either like a man loosen the turban bravely o'er thy forehead,
Or wear in its place a woman's veil.
Ah God! what use my writing? who will heed me?
Yet every verse have I written in this book.