Shine ’mong the blessed caliphs, and the martyrs

Who fell in fight upon the road of God?

How would they look upon me,

If ’mong their moonbright scimitars I came,

My child’s blood on my head? and she not there,

The fair flower of my life, the bud of grace,

Which my long-withering and widowed tree

Held to the face of heaven,

Now from my own trunk by my own hands torn.

Better the bole be split: heaven’s lightning rend me: