Classic Poem

" Weepest thou not, " said she, " for thy brother? " Ay, and sooth enough
cause there is for tears, but that my frame was builded to endure.
" Whom wouldst thou that I should weep for, " said I — " Abdallah the dear,
or the slain of Abu Bakar, he whose grave is on the height,
Or that other, 'Abd-Yaghuth, round whom the ravens croak and hop?
sore bereavement, load of sorrow — one grave filled, another dug!
" Slaughter chose from all men born the race of Simmah for her own:
they chose her, and would none other: so fate goes to fated end.
Yea, and if our blood be ever end and aim of vengeful hands,
striving day by day to spill it till the days shall be no more,
Flesh to feed the sword are we, and unrepining meet our doom:
well we feed him, slain or slaying, joyfully he takes our food!
Hearts are cured of rancor-sickness, whether men against us war,
or we carry death among them: dying, slaying, healing comes!
So we halve our days between us, we and all men else our foes:
no day passes but it sees us busy with this deed or that. "