A young man of eighteen
Rides into the battlefield
His tongue parched since three days
His heart pounding, echoing determination
With each stride of his steed
He vanquishes one enemy after another
The heat of Karbala beats down upon his head.
But his heart is with his aged father
Who he knows is watching from the encampment beyond
His soul yearns to win for his noble ancestors’ cause
And he forges ahead, intent on his mission.
Until a spear pierces his young beating determined heart,
And as he falls from the horse he cries
For his father who races and stumbles a hundred times
Until he reaches his son and takes his head in his lap.
“Alatash!” cries the young soldier,
“Alatash!” cries the Imam’s son.
“Water!” cries the countenance which reflects the features of the Last Prophet.
As his wound bleeds like a river let loose.
As his eyes flutter close,
The last image he sees in this world
Are of his father in indescribable anguish,
His beard drenched with tears.
Then he smiles,
As he sees his great grandfather, his grandfather, grandmother and uncle,
Beckon him to the gates of Heaven.
“Until I meet you, my son,
Until I meet them,”
His father whispers
And with those words
Echoing in his ears
His soul rises to the heavens above.
Amate Syedna TUS