Dedicated to the souls of the martyrs
War's cohorts came against him without cease,
Tormenting flesh with fires that would not release;
Arrows were aimed at him with deadly will,
As though time's vengeance sought his blood to spill;
He lay complaining of his wounded bed,
Though he had thought the wound no longer bled;
He greeted dawn after the lengthy night,
Cast on the sand — the sand hailed him with might;
The star wailed in the darkness, weeping sore,
Upon the stars revenge burned evermore;
How many noblest youths we lost that day,
In victory's procession, spirits gay;
We now recall our wounds that crossed the mind,
At times in thought, at times in sense confined;
The wounded hastens toward his goal's embrace,
Waves of desire toss him in wandering space;
He thrusts death back from honour's sacred aim,
Ages may pass — his glory stays the same;
He breathes sweet hopes throughout the livelong night,
And resolution whispers Qur'an's delight;
And mercy on the martyr treacherously slain,
Who spent his nights in struggle and in pain;
How treachery shattered lands of ancient fame,
How many men and knights it put to shame;
God knows how deep our longing runs and flows,
We weep the martyr with tears heaven knows;
Can gathered arrows by our weeping go,
Or ease our anguish and our bitter woe,
Or gather scattered hopes with patience' art,
Or raise from yesterday the victory's part;
The martyr's portion is the triumph won,
Eternal memory — his day has come.
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