Zainab - a tribute

 By: Sister Fiddha

The night of the ninth night,
Was your protection,
It enfolded you,
Kissing your royal skin,
Screening you from,
Your destiny,
Halting,
Temporarily,
Your death.

It witnessed your desparate prayers.
As you prayed for your brothers,
Your sons,
Your family,
But never you.
Did you even contemplate your own screaming agony?
Or did you choose to ignore through the gaping tent,
The vision of your mother,
Exposed on the battlefield,
Quietly sweeping,
With her faded black shawl,
The place of her son's death.

It eavesdropped on the mother's telling their sons,
To be strong,
To be ready,
And not too shame them.
Were your eyes on Aoun and Muhammed,
Or were they transfixed on the face of Ali,
In the form of your brother,
As he lay prostrate,
Heart heavy with the burden of his task.

That night was for you and Hussain.
Allah blessed you with the gift of reprieve,
Sending angel's to shield the rising sun's rays,
From your eyes,
To allow you to feast on Hussain,
A little bit longer.

Performing the annual vigil on that night,
The silence in the mosque,
Save from the wailing and weeping,
Haunts me.
I dream of you in a quiet corner,
But my mind remains empty of the,
Visage of your face,
It remains numb to the,
Depths of your agony.

Ye raat na dulnaa,
Ki oujar jayege Zaynab,
Sooraj na nikulnaa,
Ki oujar jayege Zaynab,
Filter's through the early hours,
Of the ninth night.
As we wait,
As you waited,
With bated breath,
Praying for reprieve.

The sun's rays mock our hopes,
Forcing us to bear the agony,
Of Akbar's adhan,
As at dawn all your followers
Rip their hearts out,
Laying them at the foot of your grave,
A meagre offering,
For your own sacrifice.

SHAAM! SHAAM! SHAAM!
Zainul Abideen's misery,
Encompassed in one word.
A story told in one word.
A night filled with one word.

Ashura over, at night
Your servants, retread
Their prints on the
Pristine carpets in the mosque.
The tenth night encompasses us,
In a desolation so thick,
We forget to breathe,
The lighted candles,
A mere accessory on the set of your tragedy.

That night you retrieved the alam,
From Abbas' severed hand,
And became the lioness of the dessert,
Protecting your own,
With the strength of your father.
As the tents burned,
You became the shelter,
As the children screamed,
You became the soothers,
And as Imamate was about to be extinguished,
You dragged Sajjad on your broken back,
And became the saviour.

It is a story forgotten by history,
Lost through time,
Insignificant to many,
Save the handful of Shias,
Who visited your overlooked grave,

Begging you for,

A place in your ark.