Muharram

By Raihana Yusufali

With the dim light of the crescent moon
The New Year unfurls insidiously
Like black clouds of Monsoon
Casting shadows of doom and gloom

Thick shades of black that drape the earth
Writhing and bleeding as the wind brings images -
a Severed arm, a pierced throat, a headless body
O my Abbas!, O my Ali Asghar! O my Husain!
dripping black blood like black gold
that energizes the rusty dead soul

The black garb of night
Devoid of color and pleasure
Hides the vibrant colors of truth
Pure and untainted
Only to be seen with the spirit of the eye
The spirit of the seeker seeking the truth

Truth in its gleaming armor
Faces the black beast in the Yazids,
the blackened hearts of the Qabils,
the blinding blackness of ignorance

The rare black rose of the desert
gives up its precious petals to the winds
The fragrance drifting in the valleys and hills of time
The scent of the Tuba Tree
The scent of Yusuf’s shirt
The scent of the poetry of Ali
The heavenly scent of pure divine beings

The banner falls with a loud crash
But the words like seeds scatter far and wide
The black fertile earth
Brings forth a celebrating green of hope
Truth after all can never die