Ibn al-Labbāna—who brought these verses to him in prison—recited:

Breathe in the fragrant breezes of peace; I scatter them about you like musk still sealed in its vial.
Assure me—if only by way of metaphor when truth is wanting—that you live in ease, for ease was once your portion. (1)

I ponder an age that once dawned upon you radiant, yet the light of morning returns to me darkened.
I marvel that the horizon of the Milky Way, seeing a sun like you eclipsed, could send its stars aloft.

A spear pursued its thrust until it found its mark, and a sword kept striking until its edge was notched. (2)

The house of ʿAbbād wept—but not as Muhammad and his sons wept when the very clouds poured down their rain.
Their morning light was the lamp by which we praised the night-journey; once we lost them, we travelled on in blindness.

We had pastured honor within the bounds of their protection, but now the pasture has withered and the sanctuary lies desolate.
Time’s own hand has draped their dwellings in fabrics whose warp is rain and whose woof is gloom. (3)

Palaces stand empty of inhabitants; nothing moves there save dusky creatures circling motionless statues. (4)
It is as though no companion ever dwelt there, no delegations ever gathered while the army stood magnificently arrayed.

Though you parted from your kingdom, you remained its true sovereign; in the fervor of my longing I weep for you as Mutammim once wept. (5)
The earth grows so tight around me that I and it seem fashioned like a bracelet clasped upon a wrist. (6)

I keep vigil over the ruins; should I die, I will make my very trace a pilgrimage-season for the mourners.
Rain has wept for you, the wind has rent its garments, and thunder has wailed, proclaiming your name.