Poem: Addressing a Relentless Time
I find myself reproaching a time that yields not to reproach,
and seek solace amidst the trials and tribulations.
Days promise me a deceptive hope,
yet I know well that it is a false promise.
I have served people and taken them as kin,
only to find them turning into scorpions.
They call out to me in peace, ‘O son of Zabeebah,’
but in the heat of battle, they call me ‘O son of the noble.’
If it weren’t for love, I wouldn’t have humbled myself before them,
nor would the lions of the wilderness bow to the foxes.
My people will remember me when the steeds charge,
as knights roam among the encampments.
If they forget me, then the swords and spears,
will remind them of my presence and the reverberation of my strikes.
How I wish that time would bring my loved ones
closer to me, as it brings me misfortunes.
Oh, how I long for a vision of you, O ‘Obla,
that glimpses the floods of my tears as they pour.
I will endure until my detractors cast me aside,
and until patience cries out from my very core.
Your place in the heavens is exalted,
while my longing for your generosity is but a faint shadow of the stars.
Poem: When Time Reveals Its Mask
When time unveils its veil before you,
and extends the hand of fate towards you,
fear not the inevitable and confront it,
defend yourself as best as you can.
Do not choose a satin bed,
nor lament the homes and lands lost.
And around you, women weep in sorrow,
tearing off their veils in distress.
The physician tells you, ‘I have your remedy,’
as he examines your palm and forearms.
Even if the physician knew how to cure the ailment,
he could not stave off death once it descends.
On the day of battle, we left behind,
our deeds echoing in the public realm.
We established a marketplace for war amidst the chaos,
ensuring that souls became the spoils.
My steed was a herald of death,
it galloped through the dust, selling and bartering.
My sword was a savior in the fray,
healing the head of those afflicted by headache.
I am the servant you have heard of,
and you have seen me; so give up your listening.
Even if I sent my spear with a coward,
it would meet the beasts with my great fear.
I filled the earth with dread from my sword,
and my foe found no space to breathe.
When braves fled in fear of my might,
the corners of the earth saw despair.
Poem: One Who Rises Does Not Harbor Grudges
He who ascends does not bear grudges,
nor does one who is quickened by anger achieve greatness.
And whoever serves a people without dissent,
if they turn from him, will seek their favor when reproached.
In the past, I used to tend to their camels,
but now I protect their domain whenever they face hardship.
How admirable are the descendants of ‘Abs’;
they have emanated grace of higher lineage.
If they mock my darkness, it is my lineage,
on the day of combat, should my lineage fail me.
And if you know, O Nu’man, that my hand,
is short in your presence, yet time will turn.
Today, you will understand, O Nu’man, the fate of a man,
who encounters his brother, enticed by false hopes.
Indeed, even if serpents appear gentle in their touch,
when they twist, their fangs reveal their malice.
A young man faces the storm of war with a smile,
as the tip of his spear exhibits his courage.
If his sword is drawn, his battles are fierce,
as the atmosphere brightens, and the heavens part.
The horses bear witness that I tame them,
and the thrusts are like sparks of fire that ignite.
When I confront the enemies on the battlefield,
I leave behind a crowd of deceived, plundered.
My life belongs to my soul, and for the birds, the victuals; the
the wild beasts claim the bones, and for the cavalry, the spoils.
May God keep away from my eyes the miscreants,
those who descend as spirits when they ride.
They are like beasts of the wild, yet they are toothless,
save for their pointed lances and the Indian crescent blades.
They rush forth like twisted branches,
like those that bear burdens in their necks.
I have continually faced the breasts of the horses,
with thrusts until the saddles and girths grow weary.
If the blind had sight in their eyelids,
and the mute could speak, they would have spoken.
The dust on the day of the horse charge bears witness to me,
as do the strikes, thrusts, quills, and writings.
Poem: I Am in the Midst of the War
I am in the midst of battle,
undisguised by place.
Wherever the call beckons,
on the darkened field I am found.
With my sword and spear,
my deeds bear witness to me.
I thrust at my foe,
who is alert of mind.
I offer him a cup of death,
and its serving is drawing near.
I ignite fires with my ferocity,
and my heart is ablaze.
I am a fierce lion,
of whom there’s none like in creation.
The spear is forged by my hands,
and the sword is of Indian steel.
And accompanying me in the cradle,
they comfort me.
When the earth turns into
a rose-like hue,
and the blood flows over it,
its color is vivid red.
I see the horses fall,
in the stretch of the expanse.
So serve me, not with a cup,
from blood that gleams like rubies.
And fill my ears with the melody of swords,
until it brings me joy.
The sweetest sound for me
is the voice of the Indian blade.
And the clashing of spears rings true,
in warfare on the day of combat.
And the voices of the people in it,
are for the braves to hear.