Quenched At Last

Many sons have been born, but none like this one,

Whose bravery and loyalty shines as bright as the sun.

On that day, the son of a brave lion, of Bani Hashim, the moon,

Sets out to fetch the children water, relief is coming soon.

He charges through the ranks, slicing them like butter,

With fear and cowardice, the enemy hearts flutter.

To bring him down, they must cheat, oppress and lie,

And the assault begins with the arrow shot into his eye.

Two deathly strikes to my heart when they cut off his hands,

Two blows to my soul, as he lay bleeding on the desert sands.

The flag that was held high, now comes to half mast,

As they plot and plan how to finish this dauntless lion fast.

The blood gushes from his wounds in immeasurable pain,

Yet his mission remains to quench the children of Hussain.

They then pierce the water skin, that carried hope and water,

Determined to persist in their animalistic slaughter.

“Ya Sayyidi, Ya Imami!” a call to the brother and master,

A last wish to be granted as his life drained out faster.

Don’t take me back to camp as I have failed to quench the thirsty hopes,

And the children will not be able to bear the sight of my corpse.

The weight of my body I will not make you carry and bear,

When there is none with whom your burdens you can share.

The time has come, my brother, let me lie on the sand,

I know you have none left to assist you from your faithful band.

Please wipe my eye, as I cannot see you through this blood,

The arrow that pierced one eye caused the other to flood.

Allow me the pleasure of gazing once more upon your face,

Let me see the one whose love they cannot erase.

Abbaas, fulfill one more wish O noble son of my father,

Today for once, don’t call me master, simply ‘Brother’.

Like the cooing at sunset of a gentle and beautiful dove,

With his last breath, he fulfills one more wish for his love.

From Allah we are, and to Him we must surely return,

Your killers have been promised in eternal hell to burn.   

     

Ah! I have lost my support and my backbone,

All day you were by my side, now I am alone.

The shores of the Euphrates with your blood are drenched;

O Saaqi of the thirsty, at Kawthar you have been quenched…

-S-

Blood Red Desert Sand

To support you, thousands vowed,

To make Islam and history proud,

Then the hour came, and loyalty hid behind a cloud,

And none remained from the Kufan crowd,

Leaving the master, to be struck in prayer as he bowed…

Ah! Struck in prayer on the blood red desert sand as he bowed…

Ali Asghar the infant and Sakinah the innocent daughter,

Thirsty and deprived of even a drop of water,

Hearts break, and the mother falls into a swoon at his slaughter,

And the pure blood, trickling to the desert floor made it hotter…

Ah! The burning blood red desert sand growing hotter…

Al Husain will be weakened by the loss of his brother, as his helpers grew less,

But al Abbaas cannot return to the camp, after so much hope, waterless

Despite the triumphant cries of war, there is a shocked moment of quietness

As the lion son of a lion is felled for standing by righteousness

Dhuljanaah returns to the camp, head bowed, rider-less…

Ah! The horse returns, from the blood red desert sand rider-less…

Those who called you to save them scattered,

When the order of yazid in blood was lettered.

Nothing else could have mattered,

When every inch of me was bruised and battered,

And the core of my soul, broken, shattered,

At the sight of your innocent blood, upon the earth splattered…

Ah! The innocent blood, on the blood red desert sand splattered…

This deserted land, that witnessed the fray,

In the battle to the death, between justice and play,

Where for the last time this earth witnessed my master Husayn pray,

Before his severed head, un-cradled, on the burning desert lay,

And the haunting echoes of Sakinah's farewell play.

Here my soul will live and die, here my heart will stay…

Ah! On this blood red desert sand my heart will forever stay!

Towards Karbala We March

Watch the figures walking the path of honor,

Leaving Madinah behind,

The soil upon which Zahraa (a) prostrated,

Pieces of heaven amongst the scattered graves in Baqee.

Leaving behind the lonely dome of Rasul,

Echoing with the resonating adhaan of Bilaal,

Towards honor they march.

Across the desert by the barricaded rivers -

A forest of arrows,

On the blood drenched soil.

Where veils will be ripped off,

And water denied.

After limbs are mutilated, and heads decapitated,

Where the cries of a thirst gripped infant,

Are silenced by a sharpened arrows tip.

Where heaven is sold for the promise of a throne,

And heaven is gained by the thirsty.

Towards heaven they walk.

To the land of the free,

To kiss the sand perfumed by the blood of martyrs.

Bravery epitomized in the acts of submission,

To the will of the Master,

Against the wish of the king -

Towards Nainawa they proceed.

As we march towards Karbala,

My Lord, let the sun rise again,

On the blood drenched souls of the slaves -

Who could not stand in Karbalaa that scorching day,

And hear the plea: Hal min naasirin yansurna?

Separated from the call of the Imam by time.

My Lord let the moon rise again,

For the thirst filled souls of the slaves -

Separated from their ‘Abbaas.

My Lord let the stars rise again to guide the travelers,

Whose hearts make the daily sojourn,

Seeking their Ali Akbar and Aun and Qasim.

My Lord, lift the veil from the bereaved believers,

Who are broken each time they remember,

The trials of their Mistress Zainab.

My Lord, let the mournful souls arise

From prostration on the sands of Karbalaa,

In the caravan of their master Sajjaad.

My Lord, accept every fumbling step we take,

In our blinding grief, and newfound relief,

As we embark on our path to You,

Towards the shore of the Euphrates we march -

For the company of al Husayn we search…

For the company of al Husayn we search.

Count (part II)

Will you count the brave sons, who on that day were felled;

Or those who stood witness as the sisters were unveiled?

How many times did the empty cradle swing before it went mute;

And the scavenging animals, disguised as men, carried it for loot?

For how long did the children's cries of 'Uncle!' 'Uncle' go

Before they realised uncle was not coming back from the shore?

'Abbaas kneels at the shore, weakened by war and thirst,

Then empties his cupped hand at the thought of being quenched first.

Sukayna asked the way to Najaf, the burial place of Allah's friend,

To tell him of her pain and grief, which no one else could mend.

The birds fell out of the skies in their blinding sorrow,

Oh the calamity, the atrocities to be done on the morrow!

Ali Akbar, the comfort of the mothers has been slain,

Now the vandals clamor and call for the blood of Husain.

Hurr, the faithful slave from his debt has been freed,

As the last breaths of life from his gaping wounds bleed.

As-Sajjaad can barely walk, yet no one takes pity,

And he is dragged in chains, all the way to yazid's city.

O Believer! The true men of God on this earth are numbered,

At the call of Husain, did you awake or remain those who slumbered?

'Husain was martyred and his blood spelt it out for all times: Allah is One!

Thus we hold to the path, and wait for him at whose hand justice will be done.

~S~

Was it You?

Was it the radiant rays that touched my face,
of the warming sun,
bouncing off the dazzling surface,
that made me look down,
and think of You.

Was it everyone I met,
that was pure and good,
that filled my heart with an aching emptiness -
was it them I felt,
or You I remembered?

Was it the bubbly laughter,
of a little child,
who marveled at the dropletss that wet her face,
that made me smile,
and wish for You?

Was it the hazy mist,
through which I saw wondrous forms -
shaping and reshaping in a million ways,
that made me reach out,
and hope to find You?

Was it the pattering rain,
or the rustling leaves on a starry night -
was it the silent tears,
that ran silently down in the darkest hours,
that made me sob and raise my hands to You?

Was it the feel of my heartbeat,
and its rhythmic pattern,
that will one day stop,
and not come back,
that reminded me of me, and brought me close to You?

Was it all the wonders,
or all the surrounding beauty?
Was it the signs of hope,
while in the clutches of despair,
was it the minuteness of my worries,
or the magnitude of Your mercy,
that made me cry, and made me smile.

I wanted... You Heard

I wanted to tell You my deepest fears;
but I could find no words to describe what I meant.
I wanted to tell You the source of my tears,
but just as I began, they dried up,
silent.


I wanted to explain why I had lost hope,
but I was too ashamed,
so I hoped my silence would speak.
I wanted to cry my heart out to You,
again and again,
but my eloquence failed even in tears.


I wanted to leave all others,
and turn only to You,
but I was too weak,
thus I hopped back and forth.
I wanted to be certain,
unshakeable, firm as a rock,
but I wavered in my convictions,
and lost my right of audience.


I wanted to be enveloped,
protected and sheltered in Your care,
but it was I who moved away,
then bemoaned my state.


I wanted to tell one who would hear,
before I said a word,
I wanted one who would comfort,
before I shed a tear,
I wanted one who would come to my aid,
despite my neglect in asking,
and my impatience in seeking.
I wanted one who would not condemn me,
and turn me away for my constant slips.
I wanted so much,
so much more than I could find the words to say.


I wanted too much,
but You heard,
and You gave me so much more.

Too Precious

I wanted to capture a snowflake

Whose perfect symmetry entranced me;

It’s six sides twirling prettily,

A thousand colours bouncing off its surface.

I thought of stretching out my hand to hold it,

and make it mine,

So I could cherish it,

When I remembered how it floated into my hand.

But I thought of my scorching touch,

Against its delicate crystal beauty,

And I let the moment pass,

To experience it again,

And value it as much.

I had captured it where it matters the most.

All Mine!

Fenced in, floodlights and cameras,

Protecting the perimeters.

Sentries on guard, every yard;

And the years wear their mark,

Upon a notice with the solemn warning:

‘Private Property: No Trespassers!’

Protecting the land from the most dangerous kind:

Those who will appreciate the natural beauty,

And peace of mind.

Concrete monstrosities,

Standing out against the landscape.

Architectured obscenities,

Where artificial fountains gush forth,

From a bubbling brook whose course was changed,

From East to North.

Perfectly manicured lawns, and terracotta tiles,

Where moss grew on rocks,

and daffodils bloomed for miles.

The master of the land -

on holiday after a decade -

gazes out of his window, and smiles.

A piece of heaven, all mine,

for a week.

Will I Ever See You Again?

In a shawl woven with love, a tiny baby is wrapped,
Then the tenderest of kisses cover him,
The moment is heartbreaking, but it cannot be delayed,
As his parched lips part again and again,
Seeking to be quenched.
The mother whispers as he leaves;
'Will I see you again O Ali Asghar?
Will you return to me alive?'

After the thundering hooves of beasts have gone,
And the clouds of dust settle down,
I see burning tents;
Distraught women and children running about.
One calls out:
'Uncle Abbaas! Where are you?
Do you see what they are doing?'
Only the roaring Euphrates murmurs a reply,
'Abbaas can only witness... can only witness with tears'
Ya Abbaas... will we see you again?

In Shaam the time has come to part,
This 'freedom' comes at a price:
Sweet Sakinah will not come along
Her fragrant body will remain in the dungeons,
The darkness where she spent her last moments,
whispering,
'Father, when will I see you again?
Ali Asghar, when will I see you again?'
Sakinah.. when will we see you again?

At the rushing shores of the Euphrates,
Where loyalty and submission was epitomized,
The tears flow freely, with no shame
and the hearts bleed as they hear a whisper:
'Brother! Will I see you again?
Answer me, will I see you again?'

Baynul Haramayn, looking to the right
then to the left,
Torn between two brothers,
Between master and slave,
Madinah beckons, and the sad tidings must be borne
Yet you cannot answer my call any more,
'Masters, will you come visit me?
May I visit you again?
When will I see you again?'

S.A

Perfectly Paired

Perfectly paired, ... in synchrony,
This odd pair floats to the Beloved.
In the tweeting song of the robin,
The nightingale finds his charted course.
She unfurls her wings in praise, 
As he is lifted and soars.
In the sorrowful hum of the nightingale,
The robin hears the whispers of love:
Souls paired by flight more than feather,
In a picture painted by a loving hand:
The manifestation of a wondrous Master.


*  *  *


The manifestation of a wondrous Master,
In a picture painted by a loving hand:
Souls paired by flight more than feather.
The robin hears the whispers of love,
In the sorrowful hum of the nightingale.
As he is lifted and soars,
She unfurls her wings in praise.
The nightingale finds his charted path
In the tweeting song of the robin.
This odd pair floats to the Beloved:
Perfectly paired, ... in synchrony.




S.A

V for Victory

Dreams shaped on violence and oppression,

Hopes crushed through military might; and

The imprint of satan’s mace.

Houses built on the echoing rubble of homes,

Policies shaped on abuse and bigotry.

Forgetting the recompense awaiting you in the eternal abode,

You keep on, proud of your perceived victories;

For every funeral you caused,

Every bride you widowed,

Every child you crippled,

Every son you orphaned,

Every mother you caused to mourn,

Every father you left helpless,

Every orphan you left in pangs of hunger,

Every family you left desolate,

Every home you tore apart,

brick by brick,

Every existence you threatened,

Every planted grove you ripped from the earth,

Every protected camp you shelled with bombs and gas,

Every oppressed voice you stifled; and

Every breath you suffocated.

Surprised and enraged by our resilient existence,

You forget your motto keeps us going:

From God we are, and to Him we must surely return!

Firm in the defence of our homeland,

The land of saints and prophets,

The land blessed by Isa (as), Muhammad (saw) and Mahdi (atf)

Quds - the land of the free.

Where death from your hands is anticipated; and

Victory from God assured!

S.A

The Deserted Sanctuary

For a thirty day season,
the tears flow freely -
like a river.
Glistening pools of submission
gathered through realisation,
Realisation through confession,
Confession as a result of reflection.
Reflections illuminating the chamber;
Revealing rust and emptiness.
Thus the river flows -
from the lips to the heart,
Making a home in the sanctuary,
Accepting the invitation,
for now... 


S.A

By The Lord Of The Ka'abah!

The dawn of this day arose with a burden…
Burdened by the looming loss of a treasure golden…
Golden and worth beyond any human treasure…
A treasure by the standards of Allah’s measure.

A poisoned sword soaked for three days in venom…
Venom meant to silence the voice of human justice…
Justice so wide and perfect it would not waste a public candle…
Justice both friend and foe got from the same handle.

Cowardice is required to carry out such deed…
The deed of orphaning twice orphans and widows…
Muting the tongue of the truthful oppressed servants.

Oppressions against him  pile high and wide…
In life and after death, centuries later…
First depriving him of a position granted by Allah…
Then his wife, the keeper of his secrets and sorrows…
Denying the faith of his noble father…
Condemning the Prophet’s protector to the confines of hell…
Equating the Imam to muawiyah and ibn al aas.

Poisoning his son, Imam al Hasan…
Stripping the veil of his daughter Zaynab…
Leaving to die thirsty at a shore;
Armless, an arrow in Abbas’s eye…
Yet the oppressions cease not…
…grow on…

Al Husayn ibn Ali is not spared even in prayer…
Even after he has been bereft of the support of his men…
The sword of ibn muljim falls and struck the Imam in Kufa…
… Splitting his head open…
And his sons took him home, a lion supported by lions…
The sword of shimr falls and strikes the Imam’s son in Karbala…
… Severing his head…
Who will carry him home…?
…Where is home…
Where are his sons...?
His sons lay silent… even Ali Asghar not spared…
The earth will carry Husayn…
Witnessing the trampling of hooves
…And the crushing of bones…
Yet the oppressions go on.

It suffices them not to perpetuate such injustice…
They curse him on the pulpits for forty dark years!
But no injustice can reduce the status of Ameerul Mu’mineen…
…Born in the Ka’abah
A life of service, long nights of worship…
Fatally struck, prostrating in a mosque…
Welcoming his imminent death with a cry of love…
…I have succeeded, by the Lord of the Ka’abah!

S.A 

Draped In Black

The valley of Hijaaz is in darkened, mourning and in tears,
Today, after so long, Rasul hears the enemies mocking jeers,
As his confidant lay silent, the comforter of his fears,
He knows this will be the most burdened of funeral biers;
That which bears the wife of Muhammad, Nabi al Khitaam,
The pure Lady Khadijatul Kubra, Ummul aytaam

When the boycott came, she went with him to the valley that was forsaken,
Where on good days, dried up roots are cooked and as food taken,
A place of hunger and thirst, and firm faith that remained unshaken.
Faithful and content she remained, for her soul had been awaken,
By the message of Rasul; of which she knew he was not mistaken.

On her death bed she is sad for she knows Fatima has no other,
Fatima, who must now grow up and face life without a mother.

Her wish to see her daughter all grown and dressed up as a bride,
Giving her final advices as she supports her in her motherly stride,
She will no longer be there to dry Zahra’s tears when she cried,
Or to listen to her husband as he told her of the pain inside.

The motherly wishes she will not live to see, and asks Rasul to take special care
For the days that are coming for little Fatima, to imagine I will not dare.

Nothing remains in her name from her wealth that was so vast,
And the description of her final shroud will make you aghast.
Thus Khadijah the first and firmest Muslimah breathes her last
In the name of Allah, and in the faith to which she held fast,
She who covered the Prophet and the orphans, today there is no cloth to cover her.
How? The injustice, persecution and oppression make your eyes with tears blur.

Rasul digs her grave with his own two hands,
Then lay for a while on its dark cool sands.
In it he must lay to rest the most excellent and patient of wives,
Who was convinced and supported him when others chose to spare their lives.
When he felt lonely and deserted, burdened by the trials of this world,
She enlivened his heart, and cushioned it against the insults that were hurled.
Then he lays her in it, entrusting her to Allah,
Surely we are from Allah, and our return is to Allah!

How can he forget her, she whose love was given to him by the Divine,
Nor can we forget her, in our hearts this day we enshrine.
A day so dark, in the year of unending sorrows,
Draped in black, standing out against all the morrows.


Salaamullah 'Alayki ya Ummul Mu'mineena wal Mu'minaat Khadijatul Kubra.

S.A



Ziarat of Lady Khadijah 

The Injustice Of The Pens

History has recorded many atrocities,
Injustices and killings, the open war against truth.
Few stand out like this against one man,
Who dedicated his life to support Rasul.
The one whom the Prophet referred to as ‘Father!’
The father of Ali, a man like no other.

Despite the proofs of his unshakeable faith,
And the numerous evidences of the God he worshipped;
Despite his constant acknowledgement of his nephew as Prophet,
The divinely appointed guide and leader of mankind;
Despite his love and poetry of praise for Muhammad,
Which leave the reader no choice but to acknowledge his submission;
Yet they deny his faith, and call him an open disbeliever.

Only a man of true belief could have raised three lions,
Whose actions and bravery charted the course of history:
Muhammad his nephew; Ali and Ja’far his sons
Do they not know the religious rulings on inheritance?
For they claim he died a disbeliever,
Yet acknowledge he was inherited by two believers!
How do they summon the audacity to deny him his right
Nay, deny him completely; and say with a sagely air:
Oh what a loss to have protected Rasul in this life
Then end in the hell fire in the next!

For what purpose did the pens wish to slay him
And commit an injustice to lady Fatima bint Asad
Making a believing woman the wife of a disbeliever?
One would need to look at the trends of the time,
And realize at whom this hate and slander was directed
Unable to obliterate the radiant praise of Ali’s faith
Spelt out in the Qur’an and the words of the Prophet,
They chose instead to vilify his father,
Then they could say: the [pious] son of a disbeliever!

By God, though your pens wish to strike and inflict pain
And cause to tears to Rasul and his brother Ali,
We will declare our love for the oppressed believer Abu Talib,
Whose oppression continues long after he has died.


S.A

True Love Waits

True love endures and waits its time,
like Rasul (s) persevering and waiting for word from the One
Forty years of silent supplication and perfection
till the time was right,
and the path was proclaimed for all.

True love is patient in its waiting,
like Nabi Nooh عليه السلام,
who persisted in patience with his people
for nine hundred and fifty years.
Not paying heed to their taunts and calls
as he built a ship on dry land.

True love waits for the command of the Master,
and trusts in His abundant Love.
Like the mother of Prophet Musa عليه السلام,
who cast her child upon the waters of the river,
into the lion's mouth,
then was reunited with him under the enemy's roof.

True love accepts its duty to the ummah,
even when it has been plundered by history.
Like Imam Ali (a) taking the caliphate,
when the people begged him to accept,
yet he knew he wanted it no more.

True love is faithful in its promise,
even when covenants are broken.
Like the Imam al Hasanayn (a) in their commitment,
respecting a treaty with muawiyah for twenty years.

True love seeks permission and counsel,
before making a decision.
Like Imam al Husayn (a) as he consulted 'Zaynab,
and bid farewell to Madinah,
for the trip from which he would not return.

True love knows that standing with truth may hurt,
yet gives she all she has for the cause.
Like Umm al Baneen the righteous,
who gave four sons for the son of 'Fatima عليه السلام,
and enquired first for the safety of 'Husayn عليه السلام.

True love accepts the path that is destined,
without anger or questioning decree.
Like Nabi Zakariyyah and his righteous wife,
who were granted a child when they were old.

True love sees only beauty,
even on the darkest days.
Like our lady 'Zaynab the patient
who when asked of what she witnessed at Karbala,
moaned not at the oppression and tyranny,
but said she saw only the beauty of Allah.

True love believes and waits,
for the return of a promise not seen by the eyes,
The promise of a warming sun behind the dark clouds.
Like the lovers of 'aal Muhammad today,
as they await and prepare for the coming of a prince.

I am still waiting my master for your summons,
and if I am destined to go waiting to my grave,
when your call is made,
I pray that I will rise forth in my shroud,
and come give you my pledge of allegiance,
as you accept my unworthy love,
O most noble awaited one. 

When Death Comes

Death is a time of reunion,
and a time of parting.
Reunion with the One, 
reunion with the store of deeds you earned
and the parting from all that you held dear in this world.
Your wealth will not buy you a warm bed,
nor get you a helper in your grave.
No sobbing child will take your place,
nor loving spouse to replace you in your tomb.
They can only cry, then let you be,
leaving you to your fate.
Glad are those who made a friend of the Friend,
for His friendship is lasting,
and when all others will leave you,
He will comfort you in your loneliness.

When death comes,
it needs no permission.
The soul has had its time,
and now it makes its exit.
Death needs neither disease, 
nor age or reason for its certainty.
Indeed, that you live today
is a sign of your impending death,
every breath taking you a step closer to your grave.

When death comes,
the body you fed and nourished is abandoned,
its beauty and splendour appreciated only by the worms 
... who feed hungrily on it ...
The soul you starved and left to rust is now born,
crippled and malnourished,
disoriented and lost, for it was not taught or trained,
it was blinded to the day of its return.

When death comes,
your Lord has beckoned,
and this time,
even if you always turned away,
this time you must go.

Sahifa Sajjadiyyah

If you ever saw a book that was a string of pearls in measure
Every word in it being a precious jewelled treasure

If you ever lacked the words to say in your night prayer
The sahifa is a book which will lay your soul bare

Every supplication you wanted for your humblest needs
Every deepest repentance you counted on beads

The most touching of prayers are all in here
Feel its words and beauty, you will lose your fear

These are the words that played on Imam Sajjad's lips
As he bowed in prostration, praying for our slips

He was the most exemplary of the characters in his time
So beautiful were his prayers they needed no rhyme

Imam had understood his role on this earth:
To worship the Praised One who holds all worth

Thus the eloquent words flowed like golden rivers
from the soul of Rasul and Imam Ali's shivers

He captured the words of our Lady Zahra'
and the faith of the patient, Zainab al Kubra

In it is the essence of Imam ath-thaqalayn,
Who never was touched by polytheism's stain

And his choicest prayers in asking for rain,
With the munajaat he learnt from his father Hussain.

If you wish to see the depth and beauty of Rasool,
and that all your requests are met with qabool,

You will always find that your words are inadequate
from him learn what it is, perfection of etiquette

The tranquility you gain when you pray in this sense
helps grant you courage, faith and patience

No words can ever do justice to how Imam prays,
just take it upon yourself to read it always.

The tears will wash you like an ocean wave
when you read his pleading: "I am Your slave!"