Remember her… she’s the mother… of Ashura… Ummul Baneen
The first to cry and mourn… from her servants are born… Ummul Baneen
* * *
If your eyes have ever shed tears… whenever to you reappears…
The image of Ashura
The image of heads upon spears… the little girls drowned in their fears…
And the mourning of Zahra
And whenever Muharram nears… in every mosque a name appears…
Alongside every lover
When you mourn it is she who hears…. to mourning she gave all her years…
This is Abbas’s mother
When we’re mourning… and lamenting… by us, crying… she’s always been
In her chest, her heart torn… from her servants are born… Ummul Baneen
* * *
She raised and gave away four lights… a moon and stars that lit her nights…
Not one by her would remain
Her pride writes and her soul recites… the flame of love in her ignites…
“May my sons for him be slain”
Her patience it had reached such heights… she did not care for her sons’ rights…
Yet for Hussain her tears rain
On a title she set her sights… one that in her sons’ blood she writes…
“The first servant of Hussain”
What a promise… a sacrifice… at what a price… like none have seen
To give her sons, she’d sworn… from her servants are born… Ummul Baneen
* * *
Remember and never forget… the mother who made her suns set…
Is the reason that we’re here
Long after Ashura’s sunset… alone at Baqi she would sit…
Telling all what happened there
She’s the mother of this pulpit… she would recite with her eyes wet…
And hearts, in two, she would tear
Without her, mourning, none would let… and no chest by hands would be hit…
For Hussain none would despair
All is from her… this reciter… these words you hear… all from this queen
In tyrants’ eyes, a thorn… from her servants are born… Ummul Baneen
* * *
A promise from this small servant… in our lives, in every moment…
Ummul Baneen’s a blessing
If you want something that’s absent… go and ask her, don’t be silent…
And she’ll give you everything
Even if, to be, it’s not meant… don’t think that she can’t or she won’t…
Something better she will bring
If a mother four moons is sent… and these moons to death she’d present…
Impossible is nothing
If you want proof… then ask yourself… how I myself… paint you this scene
Her miracles we’ve worn… from her servants are born… Ummul Baneen
* * *
What hatred and what oppression… her dome by rubble is hidden…
No minerets and no gold
By her no commemoration… no servants, no tents are open…
No mourning, no flags are held
It’s because they fear her lesson… one thousand years, yet she glistens…
Her power it is untold
I don’t think with grief she’s stricken… she’ll give her grave like her children…
So yearns Hussain’s grave, the world
“Four sons I gave… give me no grave… Karbala crave… visit Hussain
My Hussain I adorn”… from her servants are born
Ummul Baneen
* * *
(London – 08/02/14)