Would that I had been there in Karbala, My life would have been given for Hussain, How often does this thought upon me gnaw— My blood would have been spilled upon those plains. With confidence, I claim I would have been Amongst those noble few who lived to die, Unflinching, facing death, their band was seen— While I have often shuddered facing life. For my Imam, what arrows have I dodged, Allowing them to strike his heart instead? How often have I marked his rivals’ calls, Drawing the map which leads them to his tent? Be wary, tongue, you are not crushed by what you proudly claim: For weighty is the status of the comrades of Hussain.
Posts tagged “hussain”
There is a special bottle I keep, tucked away in the corner of a hidden drawer: Use in Case of Emergency. A deep shade of pink, three-quarters full, sparkling with a liquid more precious to me than most of my possessions — not for the contents themselves, but for where they take me. Four years ago, on a summer night still with desert heat, a dear friend set off on a quest into a bustling market. Searching through alleyways, combing through side-shops, until she came across — there, what she had been looking for. Heart in hand, she returned, and gifted me a bottle of perfume, the same scent as that which is used in the sanctuary of Imam Hussain. In that moment, I…
there is a tale that aches the heart whose telling tears its seams apart a thousand years of flowing tears which call: ya Hussain there was a band of noble few who left behind all that they knew to fight the fight of dark and light their chief, al-Hussain of young and old their party made both valiant men and women brave with noble brows this noble vow til death! ya Hussain with scorching days and bitter nights the barren desert marked their plight the wound struck first — the children’s thirst their cry, ya Hussain the enemy in thousands came crooked their cause, lowly their aim blinded by greed prepared their steeds to kill… ya Hussain… the river…
ya Zaynab, the time has come to bid Hussain farewell horrors to pass the looming of a bloody moon foretells ya Zaynab, with the rising of Ashura’s sun to come to the aid of your Hussain there will be left no one ya Zaynab, to the battlefield he is to go and will shower down upon him rain of merciless arrows ya Zaynab, facing thousands he’ll stand as one yet all will scatter from the sword of Ali’s fearless son ya Zaynab, seeing light, the darkness will be scared more archers will be signaled and more swordsmen prepared ya Zaynab, then wounds on wounds will kiss his skin, and when they do the enemy will start to circle in……
there have been times an infant this has shown that age does not define how much you know the wisdom that we look for in the skies is oft found in the youngest child’s cries there have been times without having to speak servants of God managed the greatest deeds unrecognized by servants of this world young soldiers in the service of their Lord such tyrants history had come to see the likes of which before there’d never been yet, by this Pharaoh’s reign would come to end— a infant’s basket down the river bend such miracles which had not yet been done Maryam, untouched, had given birth—a son protect his mother, Isa had been able words spoken by one resting…
the meeting of swords, the clashing of souls brought by dawn after silence of night thousands who fight for darkness to prevail— small band, warriors of the light the tenth of Muharram on Karbala’s sands a battle this morning has bloodily raged a few hours the length of centuries seems a grief by which young children are aged from the first arrow released by the enemy Imam Hussain’s companions for him have bled while there is strength remaining in their bones not a drop of the Prophet’s blood will be shed men continue to leave, bodies continue to return as a bloody scene in a weeping desert unfurls until finally none of these brave souls remain each companion valiantly departs from…
O eyes shed your tears Muharram’s moon has turned in these days Hussain’s blood is spilled— the tents of Zaynab burned O eyes shed your tears the caravan arrives soon will the sands redden with blood— the children’s gasping cries O eyes shed your tears the bodies on the ground run upon by horses hooves— broken, in pieces found O eyes shed your tears the son and father part the Prophet’s face enters the fray— yet spears still pierce his heart O eyes shed your tears will not be quenched a thirst the neck of Hussain’s pure infant— an arrow reaches first O eyes shed your tears to Furat Abbas goes Hussain sets out along his side— Hussain returns…
