المجالس العاشورية في المآتم الحسينية

My Master was favored with three things, the like of which has never encompassed
any guardian—so who is Zayd there, and who is Amr?
He has a soil in which lies healing, and a dome
at which the supplicant is answered when harm befalls him,
and a radiant progeny from him—nine of them,
rightful Imams, neither eight nor ten.
Is Hussein to be slain thirsting at Karbala,
while in every joint of his fingertips there is a sea?
And his father is the one who pours the drink at the Pool tomorrow,
and Fatima, for whom the water of the Euphrates was a dowry?(2)

A Master in whose soil lies healing, and beneath his
dome the supplication of every caller is heard;

Within it is the Imam, the father of the Imams, and he
is the meeting-place of prophethood and the Imamate.

A calamity which, when you reflect upon it, eclipses its sun—
so the like of it is the greatest lesson for one who would learn.
And if the highest moon weeps for his slaughter,
then no moon ever wept save for a moon.
What eyes do not weep blood for you?
By God, you made even the eye-socket of the stone to weep.
O time, what is it with you, that you strike down every man of worth
and send the highest moon down into the pits?
You dragged the family of Ali in chains—do
these people have, in your sight, any unforgivable sin?
You left every proud lion among them
as prey between the fangs of the dog and the claw.

I have not forgotten, of the family of the Guide, the noble chieftains,
clad in dust, given turbid water to drink.
The spear-thrusts altered in them every limb
except their noble virtues, secure from change.
If time mourns their loss, it is no wonder—
it is fitting for the meadow to weep over the rain.(1)

O Master of the Age, save us, for we have
no pleasant drink, nor any life of ease.
The nights of waiting have grown long upon us—so will there be,
O son of the Pure One, a morning for the night of waiting?
So anoint with your radiant countenance, for us, eyes
upon whose pupils blindness almost comes.
Here we are, a target for the arrows of calamities—and does
patience avail when the rings of its armor have worn thin?
How long shall the gathering of the oppressors against you be united,
while your gathering is scattered by the hands of your enemies?
So arise—may the remnants of souls be ransom for you—
souls that misfortunes have seized when their endurance failed them.
Suppose your host is small in number—yet your grandfather
met with seventy against an army beyond counting.

For the taking of vengeance there is none but a Caliph
in whose justice there is mending for the breaking of the religion.
The angels surround him from every side,
and before him march good fortune, glory, and victory.
His spears are lances thrust into the armored foe,
his chamberlain is Jesus, and his watchman al-Khidr.
The turban of his grandfather truly shades him
when the proud kings are shaded by tyranny.
His breast encompasses the knowledge of prophethood—
so blessed is the knowledge that breast contains!
He is the son of the Imam al-Askari, Muhammad the
pious, the pure, the immaculate, the banner, the great scholar.
Descendant of Ali al-Hadi, and scion of Muhammad
al-Jawad, and one whose grave lies in the land of Tus—
Ali al-Rida, who is the son of Musa, who passed away,
so from his fragrance there wafted perfume over Baghdad.
And the keeper of true promise—for he is the scion of al-Sadiq,
an Imam through whom pride itself takes pride in knowledge.
And the splendor of our master, the Imam Muhammad,
an Imam who has deep penetration into the knowledge of the prophets.
A descendant of Zayn al-Abidin, who wept
so that from his tears the dried herbs grew green.
Scion of Hussein the Fatimid, and of Haydar the
Legatee—so from purity that purity grew.
He has al-Hasan the poisoned as an uncle—how excellent the
Imam whose overflowing bounty embraced all creation!
Namesake of the Messenger of God, inheritor of his knowledge,
an Imam upon whose forefathers the Remembrance came down.(1)

O near one whose absence has wasted us away—
for separation from one near in dwelling is hard.
When shall we see your white blades sharpened,
their color clear as water, yet they are fire?
When shall we see your steeds marked
with victory, racing and raising the dust?
When shall we see the banners unfurled
over champions whom the wastelands cannot contain?
When shall we see your face among us
like the sun, shining after long concealment?
When shall we see the mighty of Banu Ghalib
calling for battle, "Haste! Haste!"(3)

So sharpen the edge of your keen sword and uproot
unbelief with it, slaying both the small and the great.
Hasten—may my soul be your ransom—and heal with it,
from your enemies' rage, hearts that are burning.
Justice has departed, and the pillar of guidance
has been demolished, while tyranny tramples upon the faith.
Come to the aid—may God protect you, O Helper—
of a flock to whom the wastelands have grown narrow.
So here are the hearts of mankind—turn them over,
hearts that longing has melted from waiting.
When will you draw the white blades from their sheaths,
level the brown spears, and protect what must be guarded,
among young men for whom piety is a nature,
and "O avengers of al-Hussein!" the slogan,
as if death, to them, were a beautiful maiden,
life a dowry, and the severed heads the scattered coins.(2)

And what calamity has ever equaled Hussein,
on the morning the hands of Sinan destroyed him?(4)