Though Love demands us to weep...
over the loss of Hussain...
...he even after his death dwells in...
the safe and secure place in our hearts;
Where no Yezid or Yezid's army can...
...intrude to harm him;
Our love for him is like the sun of dawn...
that shines over our souls;
He is the living martyr!
He still awakens us from beneath the dark;
And teaches us the true religion revealed by...
the supreme God to his grandfather;
The sound of his voice in the battlefield of Karbala...
still echoes in the atmosphere;
He found for us a new approach to life...
that brightens our future...
...and unfolds in our gaze the hidden secrets divine;
His martyrdom quickens in our hearts the desire...
to sit in cosy lap divine;
We see placed smiles on his bright face...
like pearls divine;
On the Altar of the Love, in the battlefield of Karbala,
under the scorching sun...
...he placed seventy two heads of his near and dear
without any fear;
The fickle mind still does not comprehend
why did he offer such a great sacrifice;
Though this great Imam lived here...
only for a brief period...
...his spirit of Imamat is still alive,
awake, complete, and perfect;
We look towards him...
...his practical teachings for getting out...
...of the difficult, unpleasant,
and embarrassing situation;
Despite the distance of our times,
he dwells inside the rhythm of our breath,
And we find him so close to our heart
as we are to ourselves;
Though we cannot see him with our heads' eyes...
...our souls always send choicest salutes
upon his blood-dyed face;
He is smiling back at us from the paradise
to give us the best contentment;
Let us not look for him only in imagination,
let us grow and live while devotedly following him;
Then alone we will find a good room in divine presence,
When we earnestly follow Hussein's way,
the beauty of his teachings shall indeed brighten us;
When the light divine glows,
the melodious eternal tones shall echo in our hearts.
MyKoul
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem