Whispers in the market, shadows on the stone

A beggar plucks his oud, a tune so overgrown

Eyes like desert fire, hands that dance unseen

A melody of sorrow hides the blade between

Silk and gold, they walk in pride, oblivious to the gate

A fleeting touch, a breath of fate, they realize too late

The artist bows, his music fades, the crowd begins to roar

Yet no one sees the crimson stain left upon the floor

No face, no name, just echoes in the sand

A fleeting note, a ghostly hand

Sing, oh oud, the rhythm of blood

A song of justice, carved in the flood

One by one, the wicked fall

And none shall see him leave at all

Underneath the crescent moon, he walks among the damned

Fingers strum a silent tune, the dagger finds its hand

From palace halls to merchant spires, the whispers start to swell

Yet none suspect the humble bard who plays his strings so well

Veiled in robes of flowing dust, he disappears at dawn

The cries of widows fill the streets, but still the blade moves on

No mercy for the rotten kings, no pity for the greed

A requiem in crimson ink, a hymn they’ll never read

No face, no name, just echoes in the sand

A fleeting note, a ghostly hand

Sing, oh oud, the rhythm of blood

A song of justice, carved in the flood

One by one, the wicked fall

And none shall see him leave at all

"لحن الدم، أغنية السماء

كل ظالم يسقط، لن ينجو أحد"

Night embraces, the music fades

Another name erased in the shade

The oud still plays, though none can tell

For he is gone—like wind through a shell