You were the comforter without substitute, you were neither sweet nor bitter. The dust is blown over his beauties, over the bright freshness of his face. Every long, high tent is pulled down. Time frightened me and was evil to him. As, knight among knights, a hard striker, you left me midst sons of diversion, I flap among them like a scarecrow's patch.
Every man is stoned by time's hearth stones, every long, high tent is pulled down.
Neither their subjects or kings remain of those that the Persian and Rum ruled. Allah watered earth that came to hold them with the morning cloud's downpour. I see time wasting my tribe, my father's sons. I became tears that my weeping does not dry. Let not Allah remove Sakhr and his love nor Allah remove my lord Muawiya.