Mansur II poem
They ask me why fine robes I do not wear,
Nor covet stately tent with carpets rare.
'Midst clash of arms, what boots the minstrel's power?
'Midst rush of steeds, what place for rose-girt bower?
Nor wine nor sweet-lipped Sake aught avail
Where blood is splattered o'er the coats of mail.
Arms, horse for me, banquet and bower enow,
Tulip and lily mine the dart and bow.