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In the Name of God بسم الله
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  • Latest Blog Entries

    • By Last Chance in Poems for the Ahlul Bayt
         0
      Alone, in the dark, a young girl is weeping,
      Not knowing what her heart has always been seeking,
      So, now, to her Lord, she is finally speaking,
      Revealing the secrets she thought she'd been keeping.
       
       
      Her Lord listens to her with indescribable love,
      He watches her raise her weak hands, above.
       
       
      "My Lord, I beg you to enter my heart,
      To you, all my sorrows, I wish to impart,
      This emptiness, I can bear it no more,
      I feel I am drowning and you are my shore."
       
       
      She buries her wet face in the palms of her hands,
      For she knows that He, alone, understands,
      But she wonders if she is worthy of His mercy, so great,
      She wonders if forgiveness and love are her fate.
       
       
      "My Lord, I have neglected my soul,
      I never gave heed to my purpose or goal,
      And now, I need You to set my soul right,
      I have no-one but You in the midst of this night."
       
       
      Tears flow from her eyes like a thunderous river,
      As she awaits the reply from this Generous Giver,
      But He waits and He watches as she continues to cry,
      So she calls desperately into the night sky,
       
       
      "My Lord, You are everything I need,
      Of any happiness, You are the seed,
      I yearn for You to make my heart whole,
      To take Your place, this world previously stole."
       
       
      With nothing more to give, the girl gets to her feet,
      As longing for her Lord fills her every heartbeat.
      She raises her hands, one final time,
      Her soul weighed down by her forgetful crime.
       
       
      "My Lord, You are my only, last hope,
      Without you, I know, I won't be able to cope,
      To feel Your presence, my soul, I can sell,
      All I want is that in my heart, You dwell.
       
       
      My Lord, I want You to open my soul's eyes,
      And to put an end to my grievous cries,
      You said that Your friends feel no sorrow, nor pain,
      So befriend me, God, let this night not pass in vain."
       
       
      As she tires from this begging, her eyes slowly close,
      And she feels that her yearning, now surely, He knows,
      Her Lord looks lovingly at the slumbering youth,
      And knows that her words carried nothing but truth.
       
       
      So He enters her soul and whispers some words,
      Sweeter than the chirping of awakening birds,
       
       
      "...Call upon me; I will answer you," (40: 60)
      And more than this, what else could be true?
    • By Last Chance in Poems for the Ahlul Bayt
         0
      How I must beg, I do not know,
      Now I've learnt to let these tears flow,
      For I've begged you and with you I've pleaded,
      And maybe your nearness, some others have needed,
      But you know who I am and you know what I need,
      Is it the pain when I feel my heart bleed?
      Tell me how to beg, for I do not know,
      How do I see your golden dome glow?
      My tears have been shed and my soul has felt sorrow,
      And desperation has set for news of tomorrow,
      And disappointments of which I have lost count,
      Aren't these reasons enough? Too small in amount?
      But how I must beg, I do not know,
      So now I beg you to teach me and show.
      To your love, I've submitted, for how can one not?
      And of my life's story, I've made you the plot,
      I've discarded of any beginning or end,
      For I know that my heart, only you can mend,
      But to beg you better, I just don't know how,
      A lifetime's attempts and in shame, I still bow.
      Regarding my worth, I will not speak,
      For in you and your service, my own worth, I seek,
      But tell me what in my pleading is wrong,
      Is the pain in my love for you not strong?
      I will not ask you, from me, what you want,
      For what king can gain from his servant's servant?
      All I ask is, my emptiness you understand,
      My craving to weep on Karbala's sand,
      The heavenly walk, baynol haramayn,
      To shout with the millions, "Labbaika ya Hussain",
      To drown in your love and to die in that state,
      Be worthy of smelling the scent of your gate,
      To look up into your once-red, blue sky,
      And have no sense but to helplessly cry,
      In awe of your beauty and the fact that I'm here,
      In the hope that I might return in a year,
      And the realisation that this isn't a dream,
      Blinded by this love and your dome's golden beam,
      The heat of the sun striking all those in black,
      To walk towards your shrine and never look back,
      Relive your sorrow and make it my own,
      Watch your black flag in the wind, being blown,
      To feel a long-lost peace in my heart,
      Forgetting that from here, we'll all once depart,
      Engrave these memories deep in my soul,
      For my emptiness to fill, making me whole.
      And for the rest of my life, to live on these tears,
      If you'd just end the waiting I've done for these years.
      Allahumma irzoqni ziyaratel Hussein ((عليه السلام).)
    • By Last Chance in Poems for the Ahlul Bayt
         0
      The poets have written and the scholars have preached,
      Yet the value of Ali no understanding can reach,
      An eternity has passed and another will come,
      The Earth's ink could diminish and al tongues could go numb,
      Yet no heart of his lover is able to rest
      For this love of Ali remains trapped in their chest,
      No words can unlock it and no action can earn
      And through a million books, only a fraction they'd learn.
      What is this mystery that no mind can perceive?
      What lies in the depths of the souls that believe?
      What is the reason that they call us insane,
      When the essence of sanity with his love we gain?
      It is the man that no man understands,
      Save the last messenger to all of these lands,
      The Lion from whom the enemies would flee,
      The servant who would break his bread on his knee,
      The man who would cry out into a well,
      With secrets in his heart and no believer to tell.
      Which man speaks words like pearls from the heaven?
      Which light is this, followed by the other eleven?
      Which prince shares his progeny with a mistress unmatched?
      To which soul and which mind is all truth attached?
      This soul is the hero of Siffeen and Hunayn,
      The nurturing father of the pure Hassanain,
      The generous slave who bows while he gives,
      This is the man whose name always lives,
      Whose enemies' lives are wasted in vain,
      In countless attempts to have this gem slain.
      But what is this rarity that circles my mind?
      Makes me hear nothing and turns my eyes blind,
      So that his words are the only words that I see,
      And a servant of these words all hearts want to be.
      Which man is the line between falsehood and truth?
      Which warrior's courage stood unshaken since youth?
      The soldier who did not need his sword to slay,
      Only his novel of a name he would say,
      "Know that I am Ali" and the enemy inside would die,
      One strike and soon after, "Allahu Akbar" he would cry,
      He, whose shield had shielded his brother,
      A man like whom there has been no other,
      The seal of the Prophets and best of all men,
      …Inseparable now and inseparable then.
      The hero who lifted the gate of Khaybar,
      My master, Ali, my leader, Haidar,
      The half that Our Lady perfectly completed,
      By whose enemies the fires of hell are heated,
      The man who one night sold his soul to his Lord,
      And cried out in victory upon being struck by the sword,
      Sayyidi, Mawlai, Ameeri Ali,
      Ni3mel Ameer wa ni3mel Wali.
    • By Last Chance in Poems for the Ahlul Bayt
         0
      Yesterday, they sent me a king,
      One whose praises they all seem to sing,
      He told me he could grant me some wealth,
      And if I served well, some more for my health,
      But with this king, I was not content,
      So him, like the others, away I sent.
      I met another who offered me fame,
      Said all the world's tongues could utter my name,
      All it would take was my obliging hand,
      And he'd turn my lowliness into something so grand,
      But with this king, I was not content,
      So him, like the others, away I sent.
      A third one arrived a fortnight before,
      Met my humble abode with a knock on my door,
      He told me he'd make my children my pride,
      And in a house of gold, he'd make me reside,
      But with this king, I was not content,
      So him, like the others, away I sent.
      Like this they kept coming and as always, they went,
      And my heart wished not to serve any king the world sent,
      And so in this frustration, I sought a way out,
      I went on a journey with my luggage of doubt,
      Perhaps I was too harsh on the kings that had come?
      Should I have listened a little to some?
      But now on this journey, it was too late,
      And to turn them away, it seemed was my fate.
      In the midst of this voyage I still had no goal,
      For I knew not where to find the cure for my soul,
      So I stopped for a while and stepped onto the ground,
      And a scent filled my heart with beauty profound,
      And as I walked on the sand to follow this scent,
      The weight on my shoulders seemed to relent,
      'Til I reached a sight that was ice to my eyes,
      In this heat of the sun under heaven's red skies.
      I saw a gold light where the sun hit the dome,
      And a red flag like a sign on the door of a home,
      And masses of servants running to their master inside,
      Where I thought the royals of this land would reside,
      But I looked again and saw no servants around,
      Only kings and queens in their dignity, crowned,
      So, confused, I asked where the servants might be,
      And one man told me that the servant was he,
      But another man came and said, "Servant? That's me,"
      Then another and another, and they all said the same,
      And soon every royal in that place made that claim.
      Finally, a woman told me the truth,
      She was the wisest and most modest of youth,
      She said that these people were not kings or queens,
      Until they had served her son through their means,
      She told me that his service turned slaves into kings,
      The way a goldsmith turns stones into rings,
      She showed me why other kings, I had turned down,
      Why each one was simply a slave in a gown-
      What king needs his servants and roams the low Earth?
      The true king's servants struggle to meet him since birth.
      Like a lost orphan who seeks a father's embrace,
      I'd serve all my life for the peace in that place,
      So here I stand, still waiting outside,
      And by his principals, I try to abide,
      So that maybe one day, we might finally meet,
      And this king of kings, I might humbly greet,
      And perhaps he might accept me as his,
      Maybe he'll turn my pain into bliss,
      For the servants of a king of kings feel no pain,
      The cure for their ailments is the love of Hussein ((عليه السلام)).
    • By Last Chance in Poems for the Ahlul Bayt
         0
      In this short life I sought virtues and love,
      So I asked those who knew and those from above,
      They told me to go to a land of blessing and sorrow,
      The land in which no soul wants tomorrow,
      So I took on this journey and stepped onto this land,
      And I saw two shining domes standing upright and grand,
      But in my shame and my filth, I spoke just to the sand.
      I asked this sand what virtues she carried,
      What treasures and gems within her were buried,
      She told me that there were too many to count,
      The virtues were more than her grains in amount,
      So instead I began asking my questions one by one,
      From the sight of the moon 'til the rise of the sun.
      I asked, 'In all your years, what friendship have you seen?'
      She cried, 'Only I have witnessed what true friendship means.
      When Habib came sprinting to the side of my master,
      Could anyone have come to his aid any faster?
      This world knows nothing about the friendship I saw,
      For if they understood, they would have wept from its awe,
      No friendship exists like that of Habib and Hussain,
      Together they grew and together were slain.
      Tell me, which others do you know who had such love in their hearts?
      Which other man would come from such a distance apart?'
      I fell silent for no other name came to mind,
      No other such friendship was I able to find,
      So I asked her what she knew of the virtue of love,
      And she said, 'You see the attachment of a love stricken dove?
      That is nothing, for true love is only for Him,
      Not these petty desires that come and go on a whim,
      The woman who loved was the young newlywed,
      Who gave away to her Lord what all women dread,
      She bed her husband Wahab farewell as she cried,
      And a widow became of this heart broken bride.
      Tell me, which other young soul do you know,
      Who would give her husband away to a devil's sword blow?'
      Again, I fell silent, for I knew not such a soul,
      And my river of tears I was unable to control,
      I choked back my grief and asked her about youth,
      And she said, 'If only you'd witnessed this truth,
      The women had wailed when Qasim had gone,
      For it was Hassan again who had passed on,
      But nobody in this world can truly understand,
      Unless they saw Qasim in his new armour stand,
      And Awn and Mohammed bidding their mother goodbye,
      But if you had seen this, from grief you would die,
      And the arrow in the neck of the six month old rose,
      The blood that drenched his small, infant clothes,
      More blood than the milk he ever drank from his mother,
      Yet this soldier was the youngest amongst all of his brothers.
      Tell me, which other young men have you seen,
      Who sell their dreams for a reward that's unseen?
      Silence took over and I had no reply,
      Only the sense to lament and to cry,
      And then I asked, 'But what of their mothers?
      How could they see their sons killed by others?'
      Karbala wailed before she started to speak,
      Her words filled with sorrow and her voice very weak,
      'The mothers...I don't know where to begin,
      To put one above another would be a grave sin.
      I am no mother and still for years I have wept,
      These mothers, never again in peace have they slept,
      For which mother can rest when her son lies in a desert?
      No shroud and no grave and a bloodied red shirt.
      Which mother to weep for, I did not know,
      Rubab, who's Abdullah was only starting to grow?
      Or Layla who's Ali had been the chest of her dreams,
      Or the mother of Qasim, who's face with Hassan's light beams?
      Or Zainab who herself had not gotten to weep?
      And her tears in her heart, for Medina she'd keep.
      I know you know no mothers like these,
      So I will not ask you that question of ease.'
      My soul was torn between asking or not,
      For a spear of grief in my heart had been shot,
      But what sorrow was mine alongside of theirs?
      What grief do I carry next to what their soul bears?
      So I asked her the question that makes all hearts break,
      And her sobbing voice had started to shake,
      I asked her what loyalty she'd seen in this land,
      And she showed me the first dome that stood tall and grand,
      'No man has been loyal while Abbas's name lives,
      For the meaning of loyalty, Abbas's life gives,
      The father of virtues became the guard of Hussain,
      His eyes and his arms gone, and his body was slain,
      But I swear, oh visitor, this man is alive,
      Your Lord through His mercy made his great soul survive,
      For I have seen no one who leaves here distraught,
      Abbas carries any burden a visitor has brought,
      Through his own tears for the children, he wipes away yours,
      And the ailments of your life, this warrior cures.'
      My tears flowed and I craved to touch his blessed shrine,
      But I saw the dome of the king himself shine,
      'And tell me, Karbala, about my master Hussain,
      For my questions, no words of mine can contain,
      Tell me of his greatness, and his mercy and love,
      Tell me of the words that come from above,
      Karbala, tell me what his visitors don't know,
      Tell me those things which no human can show.'
      Karbala paused in awe and deep thought,
      For it was eloquence to do justice to him that she sought,
      'Oh visitor, no words of mine can suffice,
      But I will give you some simple words of advice...
      Oh visitor, go to him covered in my blessed sand,
      Gift him your tears of longing to be in this land,
      For Hussain is the king of kings in this world,
      The secrets of your soul by him are unfurled,
      Nothing you do will repay him a breath,
      For no man will see an end like his death.
      His death was so holy that God gifted him three,
      And yet these three are for this Earth that is temporary.
      The first were nine other lights from his line,
      Nine other princes of lineage divine,
      The second is the cure that my sand contains,
      I swear I can cure the worst of your pains,
      They say sand is so humble and the essence of low,
      But by God, 'til this day, His miracles I show.
      And the last and the third is where you should run,
      For under his dome his answer is one,
      Whatever need you have in your heart,
      Go, oh visitor, and to Hussain you impart,
      Shed the tears of your life and tell him your sorrow,
      I am a liar if your heart does not rest by tomorrow,
      Run like you'd run to be saved from a flood,
      For the ark of salvation floats on Hussain's holy blood.'
      I tried to run but my feet would slow down,
      How could a beggar run to touch a king's golden crown?
      So slowly I went and I kissed his caged shrine,
      And nothing but peace washed this stained soul of mine,
      And the rest of this journey can't be contained by this pen,
      Or the words of even the most eloquent men,
      But only one thing makes me hurt and insane...
      The dreams where I see his great shrine again.
    • By Last Chance in Poems for the Ahlul Bayt
         0
      A king in the heavens and a master on Earth,
      No wish leaves his lips since the day of his birth,
      For wealth is mere dust and the world, divorced thrice,
      And princes who lead the dwellers of paradise,
      A brother who forever is the best of all men,
      Inseparable now and inseparable then,
      With one world at his feet and the next in the palm of his hand,
      This king has a wish and in prayer he stands,
      The angels bewildered at what such a man could need,
      They patiently wait to see what the king's Lord has decreed...
      And soon comes a response to the Amir's constant prayers,
      And Earth becomes impatient to see what great gift heaven bears,
      For such commotion is only for revelations divine,
      When destinies are tied and huge missions assigned,
      And so the Earth wonders at what wonders might come,
      Whether all its legends can by this child be outdone,
      For what child begins his mission from the confines of a womb?
      Forcing his mother up when his master is sensed in the room,
      Moses and Jesus and Job come to mind,
      But no, this child somehow leaves them behind,
      And Joseph and Jacob and Adam come too,
      Yet still this boy beyond their heights flew.
      And why not? When his father was only through Prophets described,
      And today through Haidar's merits, Abbas we describe.
      Feared to be Ali even by the men of Siffeen,
      But it was Abbas in Karbala that we should have seen,
      When bravery itself became the guard of Hussain,
      His arms and eyes gone and his body was slain,
      Yet every one of his visitors will swear he's alive,
      For through his virtues his soul has survived.
      And what virtues...where does a lover begin?
      Is it his purity, never tainted by sin?
      Or the bottomless well of knowledge divine,
      Or the fact that amongst suns, the moon somehow still shines,
      Maybe his courage unflinching, standing tall and brave,
      Or that nothing but servitude to Hussain did he crave,
      Or his humility humbling even Karbala's dust,
      Or the unspoken oath he lived with all's trust,
      Perhaps his brotherhood that put even motherhood in awe,
      Or beating patience itself, as the Euphrates saw,
      Or loyalty that will never be witnessed again,
      Maybe generosity that renders his beggars insane,
      Or the fact that to every fulfilment he is the key,
      The gateway to swaying the Merciful's decree,
      Or mercy, or endurance or absence of fear,
      Perhaps his vision of morality so clear,
      Or compassion or sacrifice or undying love,
      Maybe his wisdom untaught from above...
      Where to begin, a lover would have no clue,
      But this was something the Almighty already knew,
      He knew that an eternity would pass and another would come,
      And the Earth's ink could diminish and all tongues could go numb,
      So through His wisdom a title He gave,
      Not 'the kind', 'the wise' or even 'the brave'...
      When in all the commotion Earth and heaven were torn,
      A new virtue with the name of 'Abbas' was born.
       
    • By Last Chance in Poems for the Ahlul Bayt
         0
      My hand writes for the hand that holds my heart,
      My hand writes when his praises my lips can't start,
      For him who knows my sorrow before I know my own,
      And him who assists me while to me he's unbeknown,
      The soul that I neglect, and yet I am his concern,
      And while I search for comfort, it is him for whom I yearn,
      I write for the mercy that descends whilst I wander in the dark,
      The flood that drenches sincere souls and lets them board his ark.
       
      He whose generosity to the stingy knows no bounds,
      And his benevolence, the wretched it surrounds,
      The way a noble master still cares for his lowly slave,
      And rather than avenging him, he tries his best to save.
      And why not? When from a household of divine mercy he comes,
      And a household of nobility to which all royalty succumbs,
      Fathers who humble humility and make bravery feel small,
      And the mother of all mothers, of women- the best of all.
       
      My hand writes for the hand that holds my heart,
      For him from whom it hurts to be apart,
      He whose mention fills my heart with joy,
      And even the worst of sorrows, his names alone destroy,
      The rays of hope that shine through clouds of despair,
      The guardian to whom I entrust every affair.
      What worry exists when I have such a master?
      What is failure, and what is disaster?
      I am not worthy but he is so high,
      A servant who calls him, how can he deny?
       
      My hand writes for the hand that holds my heart,
      For the one who helps his lover and then will suddenly depart,
      For him whose love overpowers any other,
      A sister will leave her brother, a son will part from his mother,
      Just to be with the master they've never seen,
      And yet somehow, his lovers they have always been.
      Minds are left boggled and thinkers, insane,
      Only those who believe in divinity remain,
      If ever someone claims to know what love is,
      Show him Habib and Abbas and Aabis,
      Such love is not mortal nor is it mundane,
      It is this love in which immortal legends are slain,
      How it is I wonder, that some deny his being,
      When loving him is greater proof than even hearing him or seeing.
       
      My hands rise for the hand that holds my heart,
      For the veils between us to one day fall apart,
      For the clouds to move and the sun to wake us all,
      The triumph of truth and of falsehood, its downfall.
       
      But with more anguish I raise my hands again,
      Not for anyone- but for me and my own gain,
      I raise my hands to one day be with him,
      For the flame of my heart never to be found dim,
      I raise my hands to not be the cause of his sorrow,
      To bury yesterday deep and succeed instead tomorrow,
      To have a heart of iron, unswayable from truth,
      I raise my hands to be accepted in my youth,
      To be the cause, just once, of his glowing, treasured smile,
      Defeat the demons on the other side of every given trial.
      I raise my hands to answer his call on the awaited day,
      When crowds of sobbing servants for their king shall make way,
      When his beauty will leave poets without words with which to speak,
      And speakers will be speechless, their trained tongues numb and weak,
      Wealth would lose all value, the only currency- his love,
      The ornament of the heavens has descended from above.
      I raise my hands to see his light even if it blinds my eyes,
      For the one that healed prays behind him, for whom a nation is baptised,
      I raise my hands for his hand to pass my lowly head,
      To touch the holy sand on which his blessed feet tread,
      To drown in his love and to die in that state,
      To be lead by his hand towards heaven's gate,
      And to somehow have some words left in my heart,
      So with the angels singing his praises, I can also take part.
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