Wafa' ibn al-Lubani

I was having a conversation with my nephew, Abdullah, about what he had seen in Portugal. Knowing his deep passion for the history of Al-Andalus and the Maghreb, our discussion turned to Ibn Abbad and his elegies, which he composed for himself before his death. I repeat them here for their beauty:

“The grave of the stranger, may the ever-coming and ever-going rain water it. Truly, you have obtained the fragments of Ibn Abbad.”

I told Abdullah that what happened to Ibn Abbad reminds me of a common proverb spoken in many dialects across the Arab world: “When the camel falls, its knives multiply.” The meaning is that whenever a ruler or a wealthy man falls and loses his power, those who once glorified him one after another abandon him. Some even turn into his harshest critics, forgetting or pretending to forget that he was their benefactor. The friend becomes the most distant of people, as if he were afflicted with a contagious disease.

Abdullah tried hard and came back to me, saying, “I found someone for whom this proverb does not apply.”

I said, “Good. Who is it?”

He replied, “The poet Ibn Al-Lubani.” Personally, I did not know him, but his loyalty to Ibn Abbad and the beauty of his poetry engaged the reader. With Abdullah’s permission, I conducted some research on Ibn Al-Lubani. He was Abu Bakr Muhammad bin Isa Al-Lakhmi Al-Dani, known as Ibn Al-Lubani. “Al-Dani” refers to Daniya, one of the cities of Al-Andalus, where this Andalusian poet grew up as an orphan. His mother sold milk to support him, which led people to give him this nickname, assuming it was an insult. However, he never bore it with shame. Instead, he started from that harsh beginning, arming himself with knowledge, literature, and poetic talent, until he secured his name in the golden register of the great poets of Al-Andalus.

Just as every great poet has a moment of brilliance, Ibn Al-Lubani’s moment came when he met Mu’tamid bin Abbad, the king of Seville. Mu’tamid was a poet-king, and under his rule, Seville was one of the most beautiful and prosperous cities in Al-Andalus. Their relationship was not that of a poet flattering a ruler in hopes of his generosity; rather, it was closer to those rare friendships that are difficult to explain. Mu’tamid understood poetry and lived it, while Ibn Al-Lubani found in him a friend worthy of dedicating all his emotions without reservation.

Then came the test, early and harsh, when the Almoravids invaded Al-Andalus. Mu’tamid’s kingdom collapsed, and he and his family boarded ships that sailed westward toward Agmat in Morocco, where prison awaited him instead of palaces and gardens. At that moment, when people usually scatter—as the courtiers always do when a king falls—Ibn Al-Lubani stood on the shore watching the scene, with the tears of the people mingling with the sea waters. Finding nothing else he could do but what he excelled at, he composed a poem, said to be the first elegy in Arabic literature written for a living king. He said:

“The sky weeps with clouds that come and go,

Over the banners of the sons of Abbad.

On the mountains whose foundations were shaken,

And the earth was once firmly anchored by them.

The flowers upon them have withered,

Their lights faded, leaving them in a state of humility and decline.”

He did not stop at poetic mourning. He visited Mu’tamid many times in his prison. When asked about the reason for these visits, he said he was satisfying his own conscience, fulfilling a duty. This is the difference between one who visits because social norms compel him, and one who visits because his heart cannot bear absence.

The visits alone were not enough for him. He dedicated the rest of his life to serving his friend’s memory. He collected Mu’tamid’s poetry into a anthology titled “Saqit Al-Durar wa Laqit Al-Zuhur” (The Fallen Pearls and the Gathered Flowers), and authored books on the history of the Banu Abbad dynasty, which were lost along with the treasures of Al-Andalus. Ibn Al-Lubani continued to write and praise, saying in his poetry:

“My position was elevated when I had,

By your side, a place among the noble.

Days I ask for what I wish, and it is granted,

And an era when I call upon whom I wish, and he hears.

I extend my hand toward everyone,

And my fingers, due to their length, become arms.”

And the best way to conclude our discussion is what he himself said about his imprisoned friend, when he replied to the verses Mu’tamid sent to him from his prison. His words were the testament of a poet who knows that time takes everything, except what comes from a sincere heart:

“I have lost my hope in you; neither water is beneficial,

Nor shade extended, nor garden fertile.

May God water the covenant you were the recipient of,

With the same that you used to water and drink.

An era of water from the cups of the honored, silvered,

And from the fire of the goblets, golden.

And may you be safe.”

Adnan Abdullah Al-Othman