A Marthiyaa of Anis, translated into English verse by David Matthews, Rupa Co.
The sun had run his journey o'er the night;
Unveiled, the Dawn revealed her glorious face.
The King who rides the heavens saw her light
And called his brave companions to their place.
'The time has come at last; to God give praise;
Arise! In fitting prayer your voices raise.
Brave hearts! For strife and slaughter dawns this day;
Here the blood of Muhammad's race will flow.'
Zahra's darling, honoured, seeks the fray;
The night of parting fades 'neath union's glow.
'We are those for whom the angels weep;
To live this day we sacrificed our sleep.
This morning brings an evening ever blessed;
We who depart for Paradise will slake
Our thirst by Kausar's spring, and there find rest.
May God exalt our names for honour's sake.'
Unequalled, each of them to joy gave birth.
'Let martyrs rise in glory from this earth.'
At this the faithful friends rose from their beds,
And donning glorious raiment combed their hair;
Then tying turbans on their noble heads,
They faced the peerless Lord and gathered there.
Wrapped in coloured cloaks, their fear grew less;
Rose perfume, musk and civet filled their dress.
Brave warriors dwarfing heaven with their height,
In battle Solomons, in Sheba lions;
The bravest fighters bowed before their might;
No pangs of hunger pained these stalwart scions.
For their great hearts the world was less than nought;
To the vastness of the sea they gave scant thought.
Their dry lips sang the praise of God; and light
Shone on their faces; fear was put aside.
No grief or panic clouded o'er their sight;
They joked and laughed and shared their skills with pride.
Their charming accents gladdened every ear;
Each word they uttered was a joy to hear.
Beyond compare the figures of their speeches;
Each point they made with rare magnificence.
Their rhetoric the art that knowledge teaches;
Their dry tongues shed the honey of eloquence.
Arabian poets marvelled at their art.
Lips like pistachios gently prized apart.
Laughing voices, faces like the rose,
Their bodies smelt as sweet as Joseph's cloak;
Devout, abstemious; their saintly pose
In Heaven's slaves would servitude provoke.
Such rubies are not found, such pearls are rare.
'They are angels', cried the Houris, 'born of air.'
There was no water for the heavenly crowd;
Before the prayers they washed in shining sand.
Their faces gleamed like sunrays through a cloud.
Sons of the Father of the Dust, this band
Became as radiant as the silver moon;
Their faces mirrors in a hazy noon.
The kinsmen of the King stepped from their tent,
Fatima's darlings all of beauteous face;
Qasim the fair and Akbar heaven-sent,
Aqil and Muslim, Ja'far's valiant race.
Their countenances lit the sky around.
The flower of eighteen suns stood on the ground.
That morning 'neath the shadow of the stars!
If Moses, who called God on Sinai,
Had seen their light that with the vision jars,
He would have swooned. Celestial majesty
Was echoed by the birds' song in the bowers
Of the desert valley filled with fragrant flowers.
That dancing brilliance wafted by the breeze!
The russet satin sky was put to shame.
Rosy dew-drops hung on swaying trees;
Diamonds were abashed and pearls found blame.
Each bush was crowned by glittering diadems;
The leaves of every tree wore precious gems.
How fine the art of the Creator's pen!
On every leaf embellishment was shown;
A skill beyond accomplished poets' ken,
Which to the simpler mind remained unknown.
All stood in awe of the Lord of Servants' craft;
Enamelled richness o'er the valley laughed.
The light, the fresh, cold desert and the sky!
The pheasant, quail and peacock made their call;
The sweet-voiced birds intoned their plaintive cry;
The morning breeze brought coolness to the soul.
Red petals clothed the trees and sought their arms
Then gathered in the- ditches round the palms.
The desert and the morning breeze that blew
Amid the branches swaying in the bowers,
Scattering on the blooms rare drops of dew;
One nightingale addressed a thousand flowers.
The primroses of Zahra's garden drank
The dew, collected on the rosy bank.
The ring-doves gathered round the cypress tall;
The pigeons cooed: 'The Lord alone holds sway!'
Then came the cry: 'Our God is blessed by all.'
The birds pursued their worship in their way.
Not only flowers sang their adulation;
The tongues of thorns gave praise in exultation.
Lifting up its hand, the ant cried out:
'Oh Cherisher of the weak, who rule our fate!'
'Eternal One! Almighty!', came the shout,
'There is one God, and He alone is great.'
The deer called in the woods, the birds in the air;
The jungle lions roared within their lair.
And here amid the thorns the Prophet's flowers
Imparted fragrance to the desert lands;
The house of Fatima faced its last hours
In the garden planted by Muhammad's hands
This garden cut down in those ten sad days,
By traitors wasted, cruelly set ablaze.
Ah God! The autumn and the flowers of spring!
Muhammad's sons could scarcely hold their breath.
Like bridegrooms they had dreamed of joy to sing;
But their red garlands were the blooms of death.
Awake all night, their eyes were drunk with sleep.
Their perfumed smiles caused closed bud's' hearts to leap.
No comments:
Post a Comment