Alas for the portions of his nightly wird (litany) that now go unrecited, while the night is hushed (1) and all creation lies asleep.

They begrudged him the moment they found him more learned than themselves; they recognized him as the best of them, though they chose to remain blind.

So they hobbled him—as one fetters a lion among their rams—but it is the lion who subdues and muzzles whoever dares assault him.

Great mosques and scholarly gatherings weep for him, and with them the very ranks and merits that now crumble.

His noble qualities were refined and exalted; even the stock from which he sprang was ennobled through him—yet he is still the more honorable.

All the scattered forms of virtue were brought together for him; rare, elusive praises hover about his name.

His merits have filled every land; his excellence is like the sun—its radiant light can never be concealed.

On the day the news of his passing reached me, I summoned poetry itself, but it refused my call; I could not bring myself to speak.

How could it reply when the reverence he deserves demands silence, while my thoughts were torn in every direction?

So I began to set down what I wished to say, my tears between the lines like a string of pearls being threaded (4).

When the ink was spent, my tears came to its aid; when they too failed, blood stepped in to help the tears.

The ink abandoned its usual blackness, looking like the crimson fluid poured from cupping bowls, tinged with bright madder (5).

A generous cloud drifted over a grave in Syria, forever watering its soil and renewing the blessing (6).