Poet King

On one of the nights of Rabi' al-Awwal in the year four hundred and thirty-one AH, the city of Baja in Andalusia was shrouded in complete darkness after the moon appeared a little at the beginning of the night, sending its rays trembling and weak, until when it approached from the west, the depth of the night enveloped it, so it sank into it and left the city behind in the Gloom, stillness, and mourning, and the winds were blowing from the south and east, strong and strong, driving the clouds in front of them with whips of lightning, and rebuking them with an angry, violent rumble of thunder. The stars would barely appear from between the folds of these quivering clouds, rushing to disappear, as if they were glimpses of false hope shining in the blackness of the darkness. Or the waving of a drowning person. The waves came to him from everywhere, so he sinks and floats, until the waves prevent him from living. People fled to their homes on this night, and the travelers took refuge in their hotels, and the paths were empty, so that one could not find the view through his window, except for the guards and the guards, coming and going, with thick sticks in their hands, hitting the ground with violence and force, so that those who did not know would know who the thieves were. And the bandits, their reach and their lethality.