Ashura in Climax 3

The dust, it rose, a red wind, stinging,

Where Hussein stood, his voice still ringing.

“Death is better than shame,” he cried,

“And shame, better than hell’s tide.”

They pressed upon him, a thousand strong,

His kin, his sons, had fallen long.

Yet he, the unvanquished, held his ground,

Scattering them like locusts unbound.

“No strength, no power, but in God Most High!”

He whispered, as arrows began to fly.

Four thousand archers, a feathered storm,

Blocked the river, kept his body warm

With thirst. He sought the water’s gleam,

The horse, too, strained in a waking dream.

“You are thirsty, horse, and I am too,”

He murmured, “No water till you drink through.”

The horse, it lifted its head, then sighed,

As if it knew the human pride.

He scooped the water, but then a voice,

“Your women, unveiled!” — no other choice.

He flung the water, and charged again,

Dispelling shadows, dispelling men.

“You, sons of Sufyan,” his voice a plea,

“If faith has left you, then be at least free!

Return to honor, to what you were,

Before this malice, this bitter blur.”

Shameful Shimr, his voice a sneer,

“What say you, son of Fatima, hear?”

“I fight you,” Hussein said, “and you me,

But spare my women, let them be!

Keep your brutes from my hallowed tent,

While life still breathes, my strength unspent.”

Shimr, he assented, then turned to his own,

“To the man himself! Leave his women alone!”

They sought him then, a drink, a plea,

But the river was guarded, not meant to be.

“To the fire you’ll go!” Shimr’s hateful sound.

“May thirst consume you,” Hussein crowned

That man with a curse. And he, the cursed,

Drank till his belly burst, then thirst

Consumed him wholly, a choking end.

A fletched arrow, then, his brow to rend,

From Abi al-Hutuf, the mark profound.

He pulled it out, blood streamed to the ground.

“Oh God, you see what they inflict on me,

Your rebellious servants, a vile decree.

Count them, slay them, let none remain,

Forgive them never, ease my pain.”

He charged, a lion, in righteous rage,

Slaying each, turning a new page.

Arrows found him, his breast, his throat,

“Woe to you, nation, you who gloat!

You have betrayed Muhammad’s line,

After me, no man’s death will be divine.

You’ll kill no servant you will fear,

My death will make all murders clear.

But I hope my Lord will honor my royality,

With martyrdom, for your cruelty,

Then He’ll avenge me, you’ll not know how,

His wrath will find you, even now.”

Husayn, while cursing, returned his call,

“How will God avenge you, after all?”

“He’ll turn your strength to weakness, then,

Spill your blood, a just wrath on men.

Then pour on you a torment dire.”

He fought until his wounds, a fire,

Seventy-two, they said, or more from bows,

Thirty-three stabs, thirty-four blows,

Some said three hundred, a final score.

Arrows like thorns in a hedgehog’s hide,

All from the front, where courage sighed.

He sought a moment’s rest, undone,

A stone struck his forehead, victory won

By injustice. He wiped the gore,

Then a barbed arrow, three-pronged, tore

Into his breast, or heart, they said.

“In God’s name,” he cried, raising his head,

“You kill a man, the Prophet’s son,

The only one beneath the sun!”

He pulled the arrow, blood a spout,

Flung it to heaven, leaving no doubt.

The sky, it flushed, a crimson hue,

Where never before such color grew.

He stained his face, his beard with red,

“Thus I’ll meet my grandfather,” he said,

“Stained with my blood, to tell the tale,

Of who betrayed me, who did fail.”

His strength now gone, he stood alone,

Men recoiled, his power was known.

Malik, the Kindi, then drew near,

Cursed him, struck his head with fear.

His burnoose filled with crimson flow.

“May you never eat or drink,” his woe,

“And God gather you with the unjust throng.”

He cast the burnoose, where it belong,

Then took a cap, his strength now frayed.

The Kindi, he took the prize he’d made,

A burnoose of silk. His wife’s sharp gaze,

“You bring the Prophet’s son’s spoils to my ways?

Out, out! May God fill your grave with fire!”

His hands withered, consumed by ire,

Bleeding in winter, in summer dry,

Like sticks, until he came to die.

They returned, surrounded him again,

Abdullah, a child, ran from the women’s den,

To his uncle’s side, a desperate plea.

Zainab, his aunt, tried to hold him, “Flee!”

But he refused, “No, by God, I won’t part!”

Abjar or Harmalah, struck with the art

Of murder. “Woe to you,” cried the boy,

“You’d kill my uncle, destroy his joy?”

The sword came down, his hand a shred,

Hanging by skin, “Oh mother!” he bled.

Hussein embraced him, a final hold,

“Patience, nephew, your story’s told.

God will join you with the righteous gone.”

Then Harmalah’s arrow, the child was drawn,

Slain in his uncle’s grieving arms.

Shimr charged the tent, ignoring alarms,

Stabbed with a spear, “Bring fire!” he cried,

“Burn it with all who hide inside!”

“Son of Dhul-Jawshan,” Hussein’s voice,

“You call for fire? God’s chosen choice,

Will burn you in His inferno’s might!”

Shabath shamed him, he fled the light.

“Bring me a garment,” Hussein’s request,

“Something worn, not fit for the best,

To wear beneath, lest I be stripped bare.”

A small garment offered, he wouldn’t share.

“That’s for the shamed!” He took a worn cloth,

Tore it, put it on, a final froth.

But when he fell, they stripped him clean.

Then a striped garment, a final scene,

He tore it too, lest it be taken away.

But Abjar stripped him, at the close of day.

Abjar’s hands, too, withered and dry,

In summer, then bleeding beneath the sky,

In winter, pus and blood, until God’s doom.

Wounded, like a porcupine, in that tomb,

Salih struck his side, a final thrust,

He fell from his horse, into the dust,

On his right cheek. But rose again.

Zainab cried out, then, “Woe, my brother, my pain!

Oh master, oh kin! Would the sky descend,

The mountains crumble, this horror transcend!”

Shimr roared, “What wait you for? End this man!”

They charged him then, a desperate plan.

Zura’a struck his shoulder, Hussein threw him down.

Another struck his sacred arm, a final crown

Of agony. He stumbled, weak and slow,

Sanan stabbed his throat, a final blow,

Pulled the spear, then stabbed his chest again.

Another arrow, his throat, a crimson stain.

He sat upright, pulled the arrow from his neck,

His hands caught blood, a gruesome wreck.

He dyed his head, his beard, with red,

“Thus I’ll meet God,” his last words said,

“Stained with my blood, my rights denied.”

“Descend, cursed man, relieve his side!”

Omar cried. Khawli went, but fear,

Made his hand tremble. Sanan drew near,

Struck his throat, “I sever your head!

I know you’re the Prophet’s son,” he said,

“The best of parents, mother, father, dear.”

Then severed the head, dispelling fear,

For himself, but not for history.

Sanan, they say, met a cruel fate,

His fingers severed, then hands, then feet.

Boiled in oil, a struggling end.

Shimr then roared, as Hussein bent,

“What wait you for? He’s wounded sore!

Charge him, curse your mothers, once more!”

Husayn shot his mouth, Abu Ayyub his throat,

Zura’a struck his shoulder, where wounds would bloat.

Sanan’a spear, Salih’s strike to his side,

He fell on his right cheek, where honor died.

He sat again, pulled the arrow from his throat.

Omar drew near, a silent note.

Zainab, her earrings swaying, cried,

“Oh Omar, he dies before your eyes?”

Omar’s tears flowed, he turned away.

Hussein sat, in his silken array.

Shimr yelled, “Kill him! What do you wait?”

Zura’a struck his left hand, sealed his fate.

Then his shoulder, and they turned away,

He stumbled, rose, then fell that day.

Sanan charged again, a final thrust,

Threw him down. “Sever his head, you must!”

He told Khawli, whose hand shook with dread.

“May God break your arm!” Sanan said.

Shimr, the leper, then stepped down,

Kicked him, threw him back on the ground,

Grabbed his beard. “You’re the mottled dog,

I saw in my dream,” Hussein’s sad blog.

“You compare me to dogs?” Shimr’s sword,

Struck his throat, his hateful word,

“I kill you today, my soul knows well,

No doubt, no escape, no truth to tell,

That your father was best of all mankind.”

Twelve blows, then the head, left behind.

God curse his killers, and all their host.

His horse, it fought, a protective ghost,

Leapt on riders, trampled them down,

Killed forty men, then turned to town,

Rolling in his blood, a grieving sound.

Raced to the tents, stamping the ground.

Then the sky grew dark, a black, strong dust,

A red wind rose, a sign of mistrust.

No eye could see, no trace remained,

They thought judgment had been unchained.

For a moment, then it cleared away.

Hilal, he stood, heard a shout that day,

“Glad tidings, Amir! Here he is, the head!”