I wept, and thought no father had ever wept like me,
Until I found these verses—Ibn ar-Rūmī lost his son too.
So I am not alone in this heartbreak that bleeds me dry—
There is a line of fathers, from poets to prophets, who knew.
The Messenger of Allāh wept for his Ibrahim,
And now, I understand why.
Only Allāh knows how many nights He cried,
In silence, away from every eye.
O my Ibrahim—
How I cradled you with hands that now feel so empty,
How I gifted you to the earth, with tears as your shroud.
You were my joy—now I am only grief out loud.
O death! I know you were commanded to so act
You aimed not blindly, but straight at the gem in my hold.
He was a flower I just began to see blooming—
And you plucked him, even before he could unfold.
He faded like a rose deprived of rain,
Slipped tragically into that ominous ditch only Allaah was aware,
Until all that was soft and warm in him
Was folded away in the cold linen of death.
And I—
I wished it were me instead at my old age
But my Lord decreed what I never chose,
And His will overcomes what the servant knows.
O how short his stay—between cradle and grave!
He barely left the scent of his infancy behind,
Before he became a memory that pierces the mind.
He went thirsty in life’s spring,
He never drank its sweetness fully.
My heart was drained before his cup was filled.
O you, my flower, plucked before the bloom
My and your Lord knows what we both knew not
Your laughter is now echoes in my gloom.
You slipped like pearls from a broken string,
Each breath of yours—one less of mine.
I marvel at my heart—how it did not shatter
Though it was more brittle than the hardest stone.
O I would have gone before you, gladly at my old age!
But death placed its hand on you, not me, though mine is also coming.
Would I trade your reward for your presence?
Nothing here can replace your smile and bravery
I was overwhelmed, not surrendered.
No one gives away the core of their soul willingly.
Though other kids remain, none can fill your place.
A limb lost is not replaced by another hand or face.
When they play where you once played,
They sting my soul—without knowing,
And I die again—alone.
Our mishyah to the masjid reminds me of you always
I said the Iqaamah at Ishaa tonight and I remembered you would have wished to say it
Ibrahim, my sweet one—my rayḥānah—
May your scent remain in the dust with you beneath
May the soil not erase your softness and your grace
My eyes will still water you—though it no longer reaches you.
If my tears were asked for charity,
I gave to the earth more than my tears can ever give.
O eyes—weep! It is natural, you can't help it
But let the tongue be wary of what it utters lest it displeases the rabb
If sleep distracts you - O my eyes - from crying,
Then shame on that sleep,
For grief such as mine may not leave soon.
I carried you to the grave as I would never again.
Now that remembrance is an open persistent wound.
Every memory—
A sweetness that burns in my veins.
I hide my sorrow, but even what I show
Is only a sliver of the anguish I know.
O Ibrahim, nothing I thought would console me—has.
Even your siblings only double my ache.
Their laughter awakens your absence.
They smile—I weep.
You may lie in a land of stillness and hush,
But I am in the land of the living,
Dwelling in loneliness yet among your siblings and loving mothers
If ever death sends a party forward,
I wish to be part of that delegation—
To the gathering of the beloved who left before me.
Father, mother and a lot of acquitances
And until then,
If I could send you anything in sleep,
It would be the gift of seeing you again.
Your memory is my nightly supplication.
And for sure this rithaa (dirge) soothes me to the marrow
For my calling requires I pen something for you
I know we will meet in Jannah, Inshaa Allaah
I know you will be there waiting for me and your folks to a warm embrace
O Allaah, grant me the deeds of Jannah
So as to meet Ibrahim, my lovely son,
And my Yusuf that left at infancy
So also my papa and mama, and all Messengers
Peace be upon you, Ibrahim, Abal Abbas
From a heart wrapped in storm and longing.
Peace upon you from the depths of a father’s broken wish,
And from every true cloud that weeps in thunder and flare.
Aboo Aamir.
Click here for a close Arabic version rendered in al-Bahr al-Kaamil.
Click here for the translation of Ibn Rumi's dirge on his own son.
Listen to Ibn Rumi's dirge here.
