When the flowing water of your dagger and sword became a public fountain for the oppressed, countless caravans departed with parched tongues, and none remained thirsty for the elixir of life.

The poet weaves a brilliant play on the word 'aab', which means both the water of life and the glistening luster of a sword's edge. When the beloved's blade became a fountain quenching the thirst of the oppressed lovers, countless souls perished with dry tongues, yet martyrdom granted them true immortality. In surrendering to this sacred wound, they achieved eternal life, leaving behind no craving for the mythical nectar of immortality.