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Ashura Poems In English

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In this topic which I think it is new, I seek for Poems about Ashura and Imam Hussein of course their poets shouldnt be Muslim or Arab. I want to show all that our Imam isn't just a hero for us...

There is something quite strange yet intriguing with the name ‘Imam al-Hussayn’. One of the most charming and pleasing names the name ‘Imam al-Hussayn’ implies noble characteristics and most admirable qualities. Throughout history, the purest forms of art, literature and so forth have been associated with either religion itself. Hence the most sincere feelings of devotion are crystallized in the form of poetry regardless of the language used. I think it is interesting to examine such devotional poems in English.

please help me to reach this goal.

I will start with this poem :


by: Hari Kumar

The claim whips awaken

a hundred eyes on their backs.

Red tears trail the streets

to the gold-domed tomb of Husain

A golden spider with legs of blood

Wails shake the sky the minaret props.

But today, for every lash for Husain,

a lash will tear for a warded son.

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The chain whips awaken

a hundres eyes on their backs.

Red tears trial the streets

to the gold-domed tomb of Hussain.

A golden spider with legs of blood

Wails shake the sky the minaret props.

But today, for every lash for Hussain,

a lash will tear for a warded son..

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Vale of Sorrow

by: T.D Chattani

Through the Vale of sorrow does history trace

Two matchless martyrs our Prophet’s pets

Who left their hearths with Islamic grace

In hunger and thirst their duty to face.

Severed from home, exhausted on the field

Opposed by enemies who had Satan’s shield

They gave their lives that others be freed

From falsehood, tyranny and a Kafir’s creed.

Most precious blood flowed from their veins

Battlefield of Karbala has still those stains

From our hearts should rush rivers of blood

Renewing our faith with this vital flood!

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Hussain of karbala

by: Ameen Khorasanee

Men weep for you today in many lands,

And on their breasts in bitter anguish beat,

And in sad, mournful tunes, the tales repeat of how you

Lost your family upon the sands.

Death to prevent your soul’s defeat,

Became a martyr with unflinching feet

For these well many one weep who understands

This sorrow at your death, despite the years is still as fresh

Which Time has failed to quell.

In every heart this day new pain appears

And of your sufferings men each other tell.

They see a vision through slow falling tears of that lone

Battle where a thirst you fell.

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this is a wonderful topic and all the poems are great!

i found this poem on the internet

My love for you Ya Imam is so true

I will Shout Hussain, heartbroken if only you knew

And my Tears will drop in vain for you

You are so close to my heart;

from it you will never depart.

You were born on the 3rd of Sha’ban

You were a gift from The Rahman

Your father was Al-Hayder The man who lifted the door of khayber

He was the first ImamAnd also one of the first to embrace Islam

Your mother was Al Zahra, She loved you so much

Whenever you spoke, her heart was always touched

Without resting day and night

you fought against Yazid to show everyone the right

I saw your heart in deep pain

It left you when you were slain

You all fought in vein

Soon your friends and family were left in chains

Thanks to you Islam is still the true path and same

We are living and we are breathing your name

Your children and the successor Imam Abideen.

Were parts of a great masoomeen.

Did they not know you were a part of the Ahlul-Bayt

On the day of Judgement they will await their fate

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The Night before Ashura’

If I was in Karbala on this night

the last night before the end,

I would witness Heaven and Hell

spread out before me,

Heaven blocked from Furat,

Heaven prostrating to God,

Hell surrounding Furat,

and forgetting their God.

I would witness in the tents of Husayn

Oil lamps illuminating faces weeping in prayer.

I would witness the last Isha salat of

him who rode on the shoulders of the Prophet.

I would witness the love in the faces of the companions

as they prayed their last behind him.

I would witness the shining eagerness of the boy

for whom tomorrow's death is sweeter than honey .

I would witness the flag bearer with a little girl on his knees.

I would notice that his arms are still intact.

Tomorrow, Sukayna, your uncle will not be here.

They will rip out your earrings and lash you with whips.

Stay close to him for as long as can.

I would witness a man bowed with grief and shame,

making his way towards Heaven,

and being embraced by one so tender and forgiving,

that he overlooks the deed that led to this end.

From the forgiven I would witness the steam of Hell leaving,

and a breeze of Heaven wafting through.

On the last night,

the night before the end,

if I tread softy through the tents,

I would witness dry water bags,

and children rolling their sandpaper tongues on parched lips

acutely aware of the sound of the gushing of the river water near

and also of the savages blocking the way there.

I would witness a mother with no milk to feed

the baby who's thirst would at last be quenched

by the blood from a spear to his tiny throat.

I would witness a woman

who's a sister foremost and then a mother

preparing her sons for the slaughter tomorrow,

when her heart will be wrenched many times over

and she'll cry out to the desert as she witnesses her brother,

fall on the plains of Naynawa.

A woman who'd lose it all,

except for her faith,

which would be the strength of Karbala.

I would witness a man restless with fever

who would awaken later to find him self clad in chains,

leaving his family lying unburied, slaughtered in the plains,

as he drags his feet, whipped to Sham.

It is the night before the day

Zhuljanah will weep

as he returns shamefacedly to the camp, his back bare,

with blood of his master dripping down his flanks

The night before the day the Zhulfiqar will go back in sheath

Having done its duty yet again.

If I was in Karbala on this night,

I would hear sounds caressing the desert.

From one side I'd hear the calls of al atash al atash

and murmurs of praises to the Lord

and see tents glowing with noor

and from the other I'd hear wicked laughter

and swords sharpening on hearts made of stone

and see their wretched tents ablaze in hellfire.

It would be the night before the day

when on one side horses will cool their thirst with water,

on the other the thirsty household of the Prophet

will be slaughtered like no animal before.

It is the night before the day

the stars and the angels and the cosmos will weep

as they witness the final sujjud

of a body so brutally cloaked in arrows,

the forehead couldn’t touch the ground.

On this night he prostrates with angels behind

But tomorrow the angels will shield their eyes,

when his blessed head is butchered with a knife so dull

that the heavens will cry out.

If I was in Karbala on this night,

the night before the end,

and this is what lay in sight

surely I'd pour sand on my head,

and I wonder where I’d end.

Would I cower in the background like the Kufans?

Or join you in quenching my thirst from the banks of Kauthar?


Zehra Naqvi

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