Around his corpse collected; eyes, ears, scarce believed.
With many bitter moans to sorrow they gave vent;
Their breasts they beat, their hair they tore, their clothing rent.
To count their multitudes is in God’s power alone;
Turks, Arabs, Kurds, and Romans,[113] men of every zone.
They scattered o’er their heads the dust from his last home;
To mourn for him was balm, all ills to overcome.
They wept. Their bitter, briny tears they shed in floods;
His grave a pool; those tears, as streamlets from the woods.355
To lose him was a grief unspeakable that fell