And how many fierce clashes and branded camels were yours at the hollow—the hollow of Badr!
And how many fleet mounts and great, broad-backed beasts were yours at that hollow of Badr!
There, too, were the comrades of the generous Abū ʿAlī, companion of the noble cup and convivial gatherings.
Had you beheld Abū ʿAqīl and the warriors of the mountain pass of Naʿām,
you would have stayed in aching grief for them, like a mother bereft of her calf, roaming in anguish.
The Messenger tells us we shall live again—but what life is there for mere echoes and scattered bones?

Al-Bukhārī has cited part of these verses in his Ṣaḥīḥ so that one may grasp the poet’s state.
Ibn Isḥāq said: Umayyah ibn Abī al-Ṣalt also composed, lamenting those of Quraysh who were slain at Badr:

Will you not weep for the noble—sons of nobles—men of praiseworthy deeds,
as the doves coo upon the branches of the wood, perched on bending twigs?
They weep with hearts aflame, bowed low, moving on with the soft morning breezes—
women whose like are the lamenters, the hired wailing mourners.
Whoever weeps for them weeps for true sorrow, and every eulogist speaks honestly.
What befell at Badr and al-ʿAqnāqil—those mighty, lion-hearted princes?
At the passes of al-Barqayn, at al-Ḥannān on the edge of the rugged gorges,
gray-haired veterans and youthful champions, night-raiders—valiant, unflinching.
Do you not see what I see? It is plain to every discerning eye:
The heart of Mecca has changed; its ravines stand desolate and forlorn.
Gone are the chiefs, each peer beside his peer, pure in friendship, manifest.
Stout guardians of the kings’ gates, openers of every breach for the needy,
and among them stalwart champions—formidable, resolute, ever triumphant.