1. O mother of Idris, did it not grieve you
That we became, through Ibn Idris, dripping blood

2. If only you could see him beneath the battling ranks
Made a shield and breastplate over him

3. Ibn al-Muhayr and his band want al-'Aqiq
Below al-'Aqiq lie death, repulse, and redness

4. And how can you want al-'Aqiq, when below it
Are the grunting sword-girt threateners