Your weeping heals though it cannot avail,
So weep, for your peer has been lost without fail.
My son—whom my hands gave to dust in the grave—
O pride of the gifted, O grief of the gave!
May God fight the death that strikes with aim,
Snatching hearts’ fruits with ruthless claim.
It chose from my sons the brightest one,
How strange it chose the jewel of the crown!
Just when I saw in him hopeful signs,
And deeds that proved his soul refined,
Death snatched him far from my embrace—
Though near, his grave is a distant place.
Death fulfilled its threat in my child,
While hope betrayed me, unreconciled.
From cradle to grave, his stay was brief,
He kept his baby scent even in grief.
Life’s water turned bitter before he could sip,
Snatched from sweetness with a cruel whip.
His blood drained till his cheeks turned pale,
From rosy bloom to a faded veil.
His soul on hands began to drop,
Like a fresh twig’s wilt that cannot stop.
Ah, a soul that drops soul after soul—
Like pearls from a strand without a whole.
I marvel that my heart did not break,
Though it's harder than the hardest stake.
Would that I had died before him—
And faced the fate meant to seize him.
But my Lord willed what I did not,
And His will alone is firm and wrought.
Even Paradise as price would not please,
Had I to trade him, even for eternal ease.
I gave him not—it was taken away,
No shield against fate can ever stay.
Though I have other sons to hold,
His memory burns with pain untold.
Our children are like limbs we bear—
To lose one is a wound beyond repair.
Each has a place no other can fill,
In sorrow or strength, no heart stands still.
Can eye alone replace the ear?
Or ear, once blind, the vision clear?
By Allaah, my life has changed since he’s gone
How is he now, I ponder on and on.
I lost all joy when I lost my son,
And now renounce all worldly fun.
O bloom of my eye, my heart, my breath—
Has your scent changed in the hand of death?
I’ll quench you with tears that bless your place,
Though tears are useless in this race.
O my eyes, pour for me as I have given
What’s dearest from my soul for heaven.
If you don’t aid me with weeping deep,
Then shame on you if you calmly sleep!
Yet I excuse you if pain gives you rest,
Though sleep for the grieving is no true nest.
O joy of my eyes, long have they cried,
Now redder than eyes by illness tried.
If the living could ransom the dead and win,
I’d be the first to offer my soul and kin.
As if I never kissed your brow or smiled
At your scent or cuddled my lovely child.
As if I never hugged or smelled you in play,
Or watched you sleep at close of day.
They blame me for showing too much grief,
Though I hide more sorrow beyond belief.
O Muhammad, nothing soothes my pain—
All thoughts increase my longing again.
I see your brothers still remain,
Yet their sight brings more than pain.
If they play in your favorite space,
It strikes my heart like fire’s embrace.
They bring no comfort, only sting—
They stir my pain, while I say nothing.
And though you're alone in a barren land,
I'm in a crowd, yet feel unmanned.
I long, when death summons a line,
To be among those marching behind.
And if one may send gifts to the gone,
I seek your dream at every dawn.
Peace be upon you from me with love,
And from every cloud and thunder above.
Click here for the Arabic version in Bahr Kaamil.
