Oh blinded men who will not see
The truth is not where it should be.
When Salah-ad-Din came close to death
from steely blade with Sinan’s breath,
the price he paid for lengthened life,
protection from assassin's knife,
was not of slaves or swathes of gold
but bounty from a conflict old.
Where Christian wood, a source of tears,
a remnant of a thousand years
was taken from a Sultan’s gaze
and cost the bloodiest of days and
murder was the story made,
two thousand slain by Christian blade.
The price of life was nought but tree,
a simple gift that couldn’t be
for Salah-ad-Din no longer knew
the resting place of aged yew,
the bounty of those glory days
won hard beneath the Horned one's gaze.
So seek the relic not within
a treasury or Sultan’s whim,
but in the place where all men sleep
and place their trust and bones to keep.
Where mountain men with feared name
ensure it’s not seen again.
The yew that Christians so desire
was not destroyed in Muslim fire
but hides away in trees afar,
A fortress of Jabahl Bahra.