Ibn Zaydun sat in his garden, near the singing
Fountain, thinking of his brother’s wife.
He, the brave one, who had gone off to a distant Battlefield,
spreading peace through war and been
Killed for his effort, leaving behind a beautiful widow.
Last night, she sought his embrace, and he thought of
Her smooth hips, those of a girl who has yet to reach
Full womanhood, her firm almond body and her
Moist nascent. A sudden chill spooked palm-trees,
when shadows become the day and he knew that
She would never be his; her eyes told him so.
This widow in black, who had given her eternal
Love to his brother.