For fallen suns… whose time has come…
There is no more heartache for it has come to an end
But for remnants… of these events…
We are left to live it over and over again
I am a remnant… of the burning tents
* * *
What a loss that follows me… just like a shadow
It’s pain all too familiar… that of an arrow
The pain of crying worse than… blood from wounds that flows
As bleeding comes to an end… but never sorrow
There is no end… let tears descend…
Into the valley of death, so that souls may rise
We’ll rejoice then… when once again…
We see those that slipped away reenter our sight
And then we’ll tell them… of the burning tents
* * *
None suffered like our loved ones… hearts and backs broken
But it’s we who are still dead… yet to awaken
My father’s wounds are still fresh… but his soul’s risen
Come see my wounds O’ father… crush my soul within
I’m still contained… in flesh and pain…
The feeling of metal still tightens against my wrists
And the screaming… of the women…
Alongside my father’s name, I’ll never forget
Sounds I can’t forget… of the burning tents
* * *
No flesh should know of metal… that close to its skin
But, while men know of battle… it confused children
If their skin should be kept soft… then, what of orphans?
“Uncle, what are these tight chains… that they won’t loosen?”
And as it harms… my nieces’ arms…
I wonder of the welder who had made these chains
Does he not know… that this metal…
Sits on the wrists of the orphaned daughters of Hussain?
Still in the torment… of the burning tents
* * *
I lived through the day of days… aged centuries old
Day and night before my Lord… prostrate, I am bowed
For I have no escape from… this merciless world
All I saw made me hate sight… so I look at God
If Allah’s plans… were in my hands…
I’d leave both my hands and my eye beside the river
To give Abbas… more of a chance…
To bring the thirsty children but a drop of water
Safe from the advent… of the burning tents
* * *
I suffer with the women… for we’re all remnants
But for one pain, no other… but I can lament
When I buried my father… I heard his torment
“Upon my chest O’ Sajjad… please place the infant!”
My father’s gone… I am alone…
No Abbas, no Qassim, and no Ali Al-Akbar
I’ll wait decades… for the embrace…
Of all those fallen souls again in the hereafter
Forgetting the scent… of the burning tents
* * *
London – 04/09/21