Change In The Air

It makes me pensive, 
when i listen for a heartbeat, 
and hear only the
echoing stillness.. 
Or maybe i am seeing 
-the very first time- 
the calm that follows a storm.

It makes me fear, 
the road ahead, 
when i realise that you won't be
holding my hand.. 
Or maybe i need to trust 
-take a leap of faith- 
that i am you...
and you are me.

It makes me wonder, 
where the blooming flowers went. 
Or maybe, if i looked closer, 
-with eyes shut- 
i would notice the ripening fruits.

It makes me sad, 
that i lack the words, 
to give voice to my heart.. 
Or maybe i am witnessing, 
-with each vanishing page- 
that no eloquent ink 
can pen an empty heart.

It makes me worry, 
when my call receives no rejoinder..
Or maybe i am learning 
-the hard way- 
that the speech of lovers,
resonates with silence.
And then some more

Then.
It makes me happy, 
to look into the horizon 
-and our shadows falling behind us- 
and realise..
That our paths crossed,
and became One.

For What Crime?

The door that struck;

And crushed my lady,

The nail that tore;

And punctured my hope,

The gloom that spread;

That night of doom, and

The sorrow that filled

The house of Ali.

The moon that witnessed,

The silent burial;

After the sun had lowered,

Its face in shame.

The rose from heaven,

That left its fragrance;

After it was plucked in haste,

From its earthly resting.

The mother of four,

And a fifth left unborn:

Zainab, Kulthum, Hasan and Husain.

For Mohsin who will mourn,

More than his father Ali,

Who lost first his brother,

Now his wife through such pain.

Every time we relive and experience,

In Kufa, the striking of Ali,

Every time we remember,

In Madinah, the poisoning of al Hasan,

Every moment we mourn,

In Karbala, the beheading of al Husain,

Every time we are stunned,

In Toos, by the treachery against al Ridha,

Every moment when we call,

On the earth, Al Ajal ya Mahdi!

Every breath we hear an echo,

From the skies: Ya Zahraa!

The lovers’ souls are ripped,

Torn with anguish,

When they see no stone,

To mark where she lies.

The scorching fire of love,

Is awakened in them, and

Their frenzied calls fill the sky.

When they ask every time:

Bi ayyi dhambin qutilat yaa Zahraa?

Bi ayyi dhambin.. yaa Zahraa?

Sayyid Ali Son of Ali

Right from the days of your brilliant youth,

You stood by and strived to learn the truth,

Today for the house of wilayah you are the roof,

Today for our nation you are the fountain of youth!

Like a lion you fought, giving your hand and your blood,

When the streets with martyr’s souls did flood,

To ensure that justice was the only word,

And by these sacrifices, falsehood was nipped in the bud.

With every noble stroke of your guided pen,

You awaken the souls of slumbering men,

Saving them from their entry into the lion’s den,

And the enemy clucks like a frightened hen!

When comes the time for prayer,
And you raise your one-handed pair,
See how flourishingly well we fare,
Under our father’s nourishing care.
Ah! The enemies can only stare!




The pleasure of your Master is your pursuit,
And your unshaken nature is of repute,
For your warm, left handed Salute,
Shakes the throne and seat of taghoot.

I am awestruck, blinded, dazed by the rays of your light,
The noor that you are, illuminating our long, dark night,
I follow you without question in this mighty fight,
Which blinded needs a vote to tell them who is right?

Our leader, our friend in the far land Iran,
May God keep you healthy, inspiring us to Iman.

~S~

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~