He should have listened, the old Emir was wise,
But Boabdil had behind his eyes a flame.
So in the end, astride his Andalucian
Still bold despite any accidents of History,
Dropped his sword, let out a heavy breath
Then cupped his face into his palms and wept,
While far below, Catholic monarchs surveyed
A sad and newly dispossessed Alhambra.
“Weep for like a woman,” his mother said,
“What you could not defend like a man.”
I turned away and looked at the future Emir,
Who now lacked a country, he was young
But his story ended before it had begun,
And of Al Andaluz, all that remained,
Were those buildings and that final sigh.

— Rajul ibn Mustafa


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