Submitted by : Hamza on Strugle

The Flower of a Mercy Raised Up,
Destined to receive that golden cup,
A draught of bittersweet you did sup,
To rouse the heedless and lift them up.


Dead before death,
In your heart nothing left,
Just the presence of His Breath
And to all men deaf.


Can’t they see, don’t they understand,
That this struggle is not for who rules the land,
What do you have to do with rocks, earth and sand,
When all of you is in His Hand.


They weep, they plead,
"You cannot win, you can’t succeed,"
To them all you pay no heed
They can’t follow where you lead


To the land, soil reddened now and then,
To remind the souls of boys and men,
Of the sacred month day ten,
Shadowed by this lowly pen.


You stood upon your simple mat and spoke softly with your Friend,
They claimed the same, but would not a drop of water lend,
What did they think that after this they could make amend?
And say “He knows what it is that we intend.”


They took their swords and to your body they did their worst,
In darkness they earned the whole worlds curse,
That same of which all their hopes had nursed,
But Your Soul was taken to be with the First.


The shore less sea, the sweet never-ending gardens, the palaces of the certain,
All thorns are gone, no more disaster, for you there is no curtain.


by Ismaeel de Silva Hijazi