He had once rallied his people, crying:
“Come, the bond that held you has been cut;
die as noble men beneath your swords—
I see that only those who steel themselves can bear the weight of death.”

ʿAdī ibn Zayd recited in the same spirit:
A crushing calamity descended on al-Ḥaḍr,
swooping from above with shoulders broad and strong.
A treasured maiden failed to shield her father
at the fatal hour when his guardian relaxed.
She had plied him at dusk with a clear, tawny wine—
wine, a beguiling haze that leads its drinker astray.
That very night she betrayed her household,
imagining the ruler wished to marry her.
When dawn burst forth, the bride’s allotment
was blood that streamed in unbroken rivulets.
Al-Ḥaḍr was ravaged, pillaged, and laid to waste;
even the garment-pegs of her chamber were burned.

ʿAdī ibn Zayd also said:
O you who gloat and mock at the turns of time,
do you fancy yourself exempt and secure?
Do you hold a firm covenant with the passing days?
Nay—you are but an ignorant soul, deluded.
Whom have you seen whom death allowed to remain?
Who has a guardian immune to violation?
Where is Kisrā, king of kings, Anūshirwān?
And where before him is Sābūr?
The noble “sons of the Yellow One,” the Byzantine kings—
none of them is remembered today.
And the lord of al-Ḥaḍr who built it, when
the tithes of the Tigris and Khabur flowed to his court—
He fashioned it of marble, crowned it with domes;
birds nested upon its lofty heights.
The terrors of fate never frightened him,
yet rule slipped away and his gateway lies deserted.
Recall as well the master of al-Khawarnaq:
one day he surveyed it, heedless of guidance.
His riches and the vastness of his estates delighted him,
with al-Baḥr and al-Sudayr spread out before him.