Sleepless I kept the night vigil,
Eyes khol-blackened ruts.
I watched the stars, though no watchman,
Me, wrapped in wragged robes.
For I had heard news- and no news for joy-
Word of you:
'Here is Sakhr,
hurled to the ground, skirted by stones.'
Go then, to God's care,
You whose heart quickened at wrong,
You like the spear-tip
Whose bright shape lit the night,
You, bitterly resolved, free-born,
and the son of the free- Go!
I will weep for you
So long as the ring-dove wails
And stars brighten
The road for the traveller.
And I will not make peace with a people you were at war with,
not till the good host's black pot whitens.