When the Skies Wept Blood

Poem 13: Oh Akbar

Oh Akbar,
The living reminder of Muhammad,
Zainab's most beloved,
The one who Hussain prayed for from his merciful Lord,
Above.

The pride of God's young lions,
The Ahmed from Hussain's children,
The Muezzin of both the Earth and the heavens,
Layla's pride is within this warrior Akbar,

A young man of valour,
Wrapped in Zainab's banner,
Like a moon,
He would appear.

He would ride like Haider,
Such strength and determination,
This is an example for the youth of every nation,
All whilst seeking God's intercession.

The sun rose slowly on Ashura's morning,
And as the Adhaan was recited,
All were heard in mourning,
Eyes with tears were weeping,
As the enemies were heard cursing.

He sees each soldier go to the battlefield,
And for Hussain,
Their swords yield,
Akbar came to his father and before him kneeled,
Death is a destiny.

So Father let me protect the sanctity of the prophet's family,
I will fight like my grandfather Ali,
God's young warriors will bring victory,
Our swords are mighty and our blow heavy,
This is a sign of being Hashimi and Alavi,

We are on the path of righteousness,
So what does it matter if my blood on Karbala's soil is spilled,
If into pieces I'm cut and killed,
This is surely what Allah has willed,
We are from Muhammad's progeny,
So what difference does it make if Ali approaches death,
Or death approaches Ali.

This young man answered eloquently,
His words wise and yet so heavy,
His sword still sheathed and yet so ready,
His gestures slow but he is anticipating martyrdom eagerly.

How does a father give permission for his son to go and die,
To be butchered before his own eyes,
Even Prophet Ibrahim cried,
For a sacrifice that remained alive,
So if Akbar was sacrificed brutally,
How would Hussain survive such a calamity?

Hussain breathed in and sighed,
He looked to the heavens and gave his reply,
Tears followed from his eyes,
He embraced his son so tight,
My Akbar,
If only you had a son who was the apple of your eyes,
A son who asked for permission to,
Sacrifice everything for God's sake.
Surely, this is of imaan the highest state.

But my son,
Go and ask Laila,
Your mother,
You are her pride and honour,
Her right over you is greater,
Ask for her answer.

Akbar went to the tent of his mother,
As he approached her,
Her eyes sparkled and she cried my flower,
Are you preparing for your eternal departure,
How will my heart not break when my lion is massacred,
Your death will be my murder.

Yet in this narrative of Karbala,
Every young man is to be a martyr,
Go to battlefield and like Haider at Badr,
Bring victory to the heart of Aba Abdillah,
So that on the day of judgment,
My head is held high with honour,
In front of my mistress,
Zahra.

Akbar,
My son I give my permission,
But as you ride into the jaws of death,
Towards your mother,
Turn,
Your beauty,
My eyes yearn,
Before all I remember is your body on the scorching sand that burns.

Akbar,
Go towards the tent of Zainabul Kubra,
Your aunt who has raised you like a mother,
She has already lost her sons and her flag bearer,
She grooms lions ready for sleeping in the desserts of Neinava.

Akbar goes to his aunt and she laments,
Oh my Ali,
Have you come to bid goodbye to your aunt in this tent,
Without you,
My back will be bent,
My heart will never taste content,
Zainab to her grave will be sent.
Your absence,
My mind cannot comprehend.

Oh Zainab,
My auntie,
Thank you for loving me and raising me,
For protecting me from the threat of many,
Thank you for taking care of this Ali,
If you say,
I won't leave your hands empty,
But who will protect the children,
Gone are all the companions,
Please let me protect my grandfather's religion,
I cannot withstand the enemy's vicious torments.

She gave me her blessing and I adorned myself in my armour,
Helped me climb on to my horse,
My father as gathered around me,
My mother, aunts and sisters,
Wailing Oh Akbar.

I rode valiantly into the battlefield,
I held onto my sword and shield,
I cried God is great,
And my sword I would yield,
Their souls to hell I would wield,
The gaze of my father behind me I would feel.

Until a spear,
My chest it would pierce,
My sorrowful cries fell on my loved ones ears,
I heard the enemies laughter and cheers deafening me,
As I was struck and fell from my horse,
On the ground I would kneel,
This scene was surreal.

As I fell from my horse,
My father fell too,
His eyesight vanishing,
My mother and aunts screamed a heart breaking sounnd,
It shook the heavens and the ground.

I cried,
Oh Father,
Wounded is your Akbar,
I bid you a farewell.

In my mind,
I thought about how he would find me,
And whether he would still be alive when finding my bleeding body,
How would he to the tents his young lion carry.

My father cried my son Ali,
The light of my eyes is empty,
Your shadows,
My pupils carry,
Do not leave and forsake me.

I covered the spear that wounded my chest,
Yet my father saw on my face unrest,
He was crying and distressed,
He removed my hand and cried where are you, oh my Abbas?

He placed his knees on Karbala's holy ground,
As he cried out an Earth quaking sound,
His hand the spear it had found,
He called Ya Ali and pulled it out of my wound.

With it,
My heart came out and my breathing became unsteady.
My soul was returning to my Lord and I was ready,
I cried oh Sughra!
And my soul leaped,
My body was cold and empty.

As to the tent,
My father carried solemnly my young body,
A moon and sun united in death and sacrifice for all eternity,
My aunt Zainab's heart was heavy,
Grief surrounded the daughters of Ali,
How many more tragedies would they see,
Their tears had already cried the brutal deaths of many.