And her father the Emperor, grieving, made her a glorious tomb of marble domed and pinnacled with gold and the tower and minars roofed with turquoise tiles. Nay, the very sand of the paths was dust of turquoises, and about it a glorious garden where her sweet spirit might gladden to dream in the moonlight, her griefs forgotten, her joys completed in the ecstasy of union with the One, the Alone.
And yet—yet—thus wrote my Princess:
“If on the Day of Reckoning
God saith, ‘In due proportion I will pay
And recompense thee for thy suffering.’
“Lo, all the joys of heaven it would outweigh.
Were all God’s gladness poured upon me, yet
He would be in my debt.”
May the lights of Allah be her testimony and make bright her tomb.
For I loved her, and pray that her memory may be fragrant when I am dust.