Quraysh learned full well at Badr—
on that morning of captives and grievous slaughter—
that when the tall spear-shafts cross
we are the guardians of battle on the day of Abū al-Walīd.
We slew the two sons of Rabīʿah the day they marched against us,
wrapped head-to-toe in overlapping iron.
Ḥakīm turned and ran while the men of Banū al-Najjār
wheeled about, pacing like lions;
then the hosts of Fihr broke and fled,
abandoned from afar by al-Ḥuwayrith.
You tasted humiliation and death—
a sudden, piercing thrust beneath the jugular.
All your people turned in flight together,
paying no heed to their ancient, time-honoured pedigree.

Hind bint Uthāthah ibn ʿAbbād ibn al-Muṭṭalib lamented ʿUbaydah ibn al-Ḥārith ibn al-Muṭṭalib:

The valley of al-Safrāʾ now enfolds
glory, nobility, and deep-rooted forbearance—
a mind abundant in wisdom and reason.
Ubaydah—weep for him on behalf of travelers far from home,
and for a widow who sinks upon a dust-stained child, stiff as a dry stump.
Weep for him for the clans in every harsh winter
when the sky’s horizons redden with drought.
Weep for him for the orphans while the cutting wind howls,
and the cooking-pot—so often filled by him—foams and boils.
If the fire’s light has now gone out,
he once fed it with sturdy logs—
for the night visitor, the seeker of hospitality,
and even the dog that barked and then sat at ease.

Al-Umawī relates in his “Maghāzī,” on the authority of Saʿīd ibn Qaṭan, that ʿĀtikah bint ʿAbd al-Muṭṭalib said, recalling the vision she had concerning Badr:

If my vision be not true, and its meaning never reach you,
may only a shattered remnant of the people escape in flight!
He saw, then came to you with the certainty of what he saw—
with his own eyes he witnessed keen swords rending.
You said I had lied—though I did not;
only a liar calls the truth a lie.
No one returned save Ḥakīm, fleeing in dread of death,
every avenue of escape closed before him.
Indian blades were set before your heads,
and keen-pointed spears with barbs and hooks;
fire seemed to flash along their edges
whenever the embattled lions grasped them.
May my father be the ransom for Muḥammad on the day of encounter,
when the backs of the war-camels bite into their pads!
With razor-sharp swords he stripped away your lives at close quarters
as sweeping rain-clouds scour the fringes of the sky.
How many a proud chieftain his blades have cooled,
how many a stalwart warrior they have shaken and toppled!
Why are some of your dead cast into the well,
while their equals sit captive with my nephew, raising no hand to fight?
Were they women, or had the appointed term from God
overtaken their souls—when that term arrives, none can turn it back?
So how did Muḥammad’s own kinsmen judge him in the clash,
when war lays bare its proofs?
Did his blows not descend with a crash to unnerve the coward,
so that even in broad daylight the stars appeared?