⦗ق 166⦘
He loosed at Ghazan’s very throat—face to face—his arrows of supplication, Destiny itself lending aid.

At Tall Rāhiṭ, when the foe had overrun all Syria and evil—and its flying sparks—dragged on (1),

afterwards he split the Meadow while naked swords were raised, cleaving through companies made up, in whole or in part, of Tatars.

All the while his opponents stayed home—the boldest of them—hiding behind their doors like women.

Then came Kisrawān and the mountain fastnesses: he made their towering peaks stand firm even as the very crags were riven.

With the sword he reaped those people to the full extent of his strength; long had they strutted in tyranny, never weary of their excess.

They said, “We have buried him.” We answered, “How astonishing! (2) Have they really interred that radiant star?”

No glowing idea of his will ever disappear; only bodies and outward forms pass away.

No one failed to mourn him in regret save the one whose blood does not pour in ceaseless, pelting streams (3).

Alas for you, Abū al-ʿAbbās! How many a noble virtue vanished when the span of your life came to an end.

May the drenching downpour of the wasmi rains water your soil, and may every single drop adorn your resting-place (4).

May a flash of lightning ever flirt with it, sweet-lipped and wide-eyed in its glances.

For the loss of one like you—who has no peer—the prayer-niches, the verses, and the surahs all grieve (5).

O heir to the prophets’ knowledge and sound judgment, you have left in my heart a fire whose fuel is reflection.