1. I lost you, O Ibn Abi Tahir
And fed your grief with poetry

2. You're neither hot nor cold
And between the two, only lukewarm

3. Yet you so trouble souls
With your insipid, vapid troubling

4. Your art wavers amongst arts
So neither fresh nor present

5. I saw you barking wildly
As you did to the shining moon

6. That remains the way of dogs
Which does no harm to the moon

7. My bow is wearied
By every faithful bowman

8. My arrows bloodied
By your wrath like a rebel's

9. But their deadly aim was hindered
By your trifling worth in mind

10. So fear not my arrows with intent
Nor feel too safe from those incoming