Then she gestured for her inkwell, so I brought it to her, and she wrote you this letter that you see. When morning came, she went out asking people about you everywhere, and she scanned the faces of those coming and going, hoping to see you or someone who could guide her to you, but she gained nothing until the sun descended to its setting. She returned home when half the night had passed, and she had not reached it before she heard the wailing, and she knew that the arrow had reached its mark, and that vibrant rose that filled the world with beauty and splendor had shed its last petal. She grieved for her with the grief of a bereaved mother for her only child, and never was seen a day like it, a day with more weeping men and women.
And the greatest of my concerns was what saddened her, that all she had hoped for in the last hours of her life was to see you, but that eluded her, and she passed away without her wish being fulfilled. I kept the matter of the letter secret in my soul and continued to seek a way to you until I found you. I thanked her for her deed and gave her permission to leave, so she left. No sooner had I been alone than I felt a black cloud descending over my eyes little by little until everything was veiled from my sight. Then I do not know what happened after that until I saw you.