He was a soldier with a soldier's pride,This hawk, whose home was by a king's side.He was haughty as his master, all other birdsThought him a disaster, his beak was fearedAs much as his talons. With hooded eyes(His place on the royal roster was his prize)He stands sentinel on the king's arm, politeAnd trained meticulously to do what is rightAnd proper with courtly grace. He has no needTo see the Simurgh even in a dream, his deedsAre sufficient for him, and no journey could replaceThe royal command, royal morsel food no disgraceTo his way of thinking, he easily satisfies the king.He flies with cutting grace on sinister wingThrough valleys and upward into the sky,He has no other wish but so to live and then to die.The hoopoe says: 'You have no sense with your soldier's pride.Do you think that supping with kings, doing their willIs enough to keep you in favour, always at their side?An earthly king may be just but you must beware stillFor a king's justice is whim pretending to be good.Once there was a king who prized his slave for his beauty.His body's silver sheen fascinated the prince who wouldDress him in fine clothes so his looks alone were his duty.The king amused himself by placing on his favourite's headAn apple for a bullseye, the poor silver slave would growYellow with fear because he knew too well blood is red.His silver hue would be tarnished if the king's bowWas not true; an injured slave would his silver loseTo be discarded because the king would not be amused.'
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