Sweet Zaynul Abideen

By: Sister Mardhiya

The chained figure,
in the shadow of night,
tracing the path,
to a barren soil.
Imprisoned; with weighty shackles,
bound to his feet,
the chained figure,
follows the path.

Where to . . .
when shall he reach his destination?
anxiety has dawned on me,
as moon light sparkles,
in his tears.

Why . . .
what has he seen,
that aches far beyond,
the wound on his back?
Light envelops him,
as he nears a peculiar site,
and the shadow disappears . . .

Leaving behind,
the chained figure,
with a bent back.
He lowers himself,
to the scattered bodies,
lying on the deserted lane.
With his bruised fingers,
he rubs each piece,
and places them,
in the little grave dug by his side.

A humble greeting,
followed by cries,
as he picks the last one.
The torn veins,
of his father Hussain,
trampled by the horses.
With his tears,
he washed the dust,
settled on it.

What an hour it were,
the soul had patched with the body,
Zaynul Abideen's reunition,
with the withered petals,
of Muhammad's Garden.