Muharram

With the dim light of the crescent moon The New Year unfurls insidiously Like black clouds of Monsoon Casting shadows of doom and gloom Thick shades of black that drape the earth Writhing and bleeding as the wind brings images - A Severed arm, a pierced throat, a headless body O my Abbas! O my Ali Asghar! O my Hussain! Dripping black blood like black gold That energizes the rusty dead soul The black garb of night Devoid of color and pleasure Hides the vibrant colors of truth Pure and untainted Only to be seen with the spirit of the eye The spirit of the seeker seeking the truth Truth in its gleaming armor Faces the black beast in the Yazids, The blackened hearts of the Qabils, The blinding blackness of ignorance The rare black rose of the desert Gives up its precious petals to the winds The fragrance drifting in the valleys and hills of time The scent of the Tuba Tree The scent of Yusuf’s shirt The scent of the poetry of Ali The heavenly scent of pure divine beings The banner falls with a loud crash But the words like seeds scatter far and wide The black fertile earth Brings forth a celebrating green of hope Truth after all can never die.

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