“To me, death for the sake of what is right is nothing but happiness, and living under tyrants is nothing but living in hell.”—Imam Hussain ibn Ali

***

I wander the sands, smeared crimson o’er gold;

The blood of my house runs red as dusk.

The children are crying, their throats parched earth…

Children of this earth, begging for rain,

Just to moisten the cracks, as their words crack to death.

I beg for them; I, Hussain, Allah’s own slave,

The son of Ali of the pronged scimitar

And Fatima, daughter of Rasulullah.

My grandfather taught me upon his blessed knee,

And played in the garden with my brother and me.

He said we were youths fit for Jannah’s garden,

Bound to run beside rivers of white milk, dark wine,

Knowledge and Wisdom, two streams from the Throne.

We are drowning, we martyrs, in sorrow full drunk.

The river of that wine has rushed over my house this day;

The color of the sinking sun has tinged our clothes this day.

Oh, Hasan, my brother, rest easy till the day of resurrection!

Praise God you were spared the sun’s descent this eve!

We are not long to be parted by the veil of this world!

I followed the course that was destined for me;

Before my mother’s womb, this place was my tomb,

For my knee would not bend to a tyrant’s command.

Now I bow to my fate, though my manhood revolts

At the sight of my household I’ve no hope to save.

They say a man who cannot guard his women is no man at all;

They say the chief who lets his tribe be scattered is himself scattered to the wind.

But these few gathered under my name are loyal to their word.

These few beneath the cloak of my authority are patient in their pain,

And like my father’s slaves, they will not go, though they have been freed.

They will endure the dying light and keep vigil through the night.

Our swords will sing before the silence falls;

Yes, our blades will taste blood ere the rust of ruin claims them.

Those dearest to me beg to die advancing,

Young men, the flower of my clan.

I deny; they insist; I cannot hold them back.

But my son I permit upon first request,

For it is he I would spare above them all,

And my selfish longings must be squelched.

I will not hoard this gift among gifts,

This boy with the name of my sire Ali

And the face of the Prophet, shining grace.

He is as they were when youth upon them smiled,

With high spirits, strong arm, and a heart for his Lord.

Must he return to the One so soon?

Yes, this day, I will pull forth the spear, along with his heart,

And mourn o’er his body, asleep in the sands.

I bade him kiss his mother and his aunt before he left;

Now neither of them speak since his voice cried out in agony, then fell silent.

O Father, who stormed the gates of the enemy,

Praise the Almighty you never had need to bury a son!

It is a harder gate to break than any that have been broken!

O Ali Akbar, they will sing of your virtues and your blade;

They will sing of your pride and your prowess;

They will sing of how many you slew before you, too, were slain…

But they may never bring you back to us,

Not until the sky tears apart, like the seam of a garment,

And the dead are brought to bliss or condemnation.

No comfort may we take but in Allah’s will, decreed for us,

As the memory of your screaming is carried away by relentless wind.

I can watch the children suffer no more,

The future rotting before our eyes, like bulbs beneath the earth,

Death at the root of ourselves, cut off from water.

Abbas, half-brother of mine, standard-bearer of my army,

What makes you appoint yourself our water-bearer now?

Is it my daughter Sakina, whom you love so dearly, begging for drink?

It is I who should soothe her tongue, not you!

Yet you will mount and ride against the wind,

Ride hard, for death or the brook!

No water will you drink there, but only fill the goatskin

And ride back, as arrows pierce the sky,

Pierce your arms, your chest, your eye,

And blacken the sun with mortal wounds.

The spilling water mingles with your gushing blood,

As they hack you limb from limb.

I rush to you, but you refuse my aid.

Disarmed and disheartened, you will die alone,

And my grief makes you half of me no longer,

But the whole of me, as if my spine were snapped,

And you call me “brother” with your last breath.

You will not return to camp with empty hands,

Nor be tortured by the pleas of orphans.

But I am not to be spared, not yet.

My son in the cradle is too weak to cry,

The youngest of my body, about to die.

His mother’s milk has dried in her breasts,

And her eyes appear like soulless glass.

She is shattered into silence, like my kinsmen, strewn upon the sands.

I take up my infant son, my arms now his cradle,

And hold him aloft before the army arrayed against us.

My enemies—but surely men have hearts?

Surely they’ve felt a baby’s grip,

Small-fingered innocence in helpless hands,

Warrior hands, once strong, now weak,

For they cannot quench my child’s thirst!

So I beg them—Hussain, Allah’s own slave,

Son of Ali, warrior and sage,

And of Fatima, Lady of Paradise.

I swallow my ancestral pride,

And beg for water on the steps of the sand.

My father taught me that men are equals,

Be it in faith, or in humanity.

I look for human eyes now, but see the fangs of jackals!

The sky tears open from a hunting shaft,

Fit for beasts, not an infant’s neck,

Nor one weak warrior hand!

I cry out—blood, blood, blood!

I cast it to the sun-streaked sky.

Crimson marries crimson

And cries out for vengeance from the ground.

I anoint my face with it as a testament against the wicked.

Is this what Ibrahim felt when asked to sacrifice his son?

I have lost my Ismael, once, twice—

All in one day!

So I wander the sands, smeared crimson o’er gold;

The blood of my house runs red as dusk.

How shall I tell the mother of her lost child?

How shall I face her with blood upon my cheeks?

Oh, Allah, who makes us patient in adversity,

Let me now endure the test!

To be Your slave is my crown;

To drink Your wine will slake my thirst,

And I will put my forehead to the ground,

Even as the sky bleeds sunset scarlet,

And I ride to face my end.

Come, Sakina, embrace your father!

You must learn to sleep without the rhythm of my voice

Telling tales of your grandsire, your great-grandsire, and his uncle,

Gaining victories as their banners snapped in the breeze.

They were warriors unmatched, blessed by divine favor,

Yet here I am, in the desert of my defeat!

Are they all watching these moments melting,

Like the drops of sweat upon my brow?

I look around, and there are none left to help me.

No, I must unsheathe my sword alone

So my daughter may bear witness

She was not created from a coward’s seed.

I will weep for her lost innocence,

Her parched tongue, her shocked visage.

I will weep that I cannot shield her, for all my name’s glory,

As she asks me how long she must wait to join me.

Sister, come and kiss your brother!

We shared a womb, O Zeinab, and now we share our fate!

We are of Fatima and Karbala born.

Kiss me, where our mother told you to:

On the forehead, on the throat.

Here the mortal strikes will fall;

Here her dream will find its meaning;

Here the final cup I’ll drink.

I swear, you will see nothing but beauty.

When our mother’s spirit haunts this place,

Shedding tears of wrath upon red sands,

Guide her through the path of the slain

So she may bless my head upon the spear,

And let her wailing weave the nasheeds

Of the Month of Muharram.