“They did not make it seem so to them… O Mary,
He was slaughtered in front of me.
A youth, yet he was denied—
his eyes never courted joy.
Even in his beauty he was different—
but only through Muhammad can he be described.
O Mary, peace of God be upon Jesus and his beloved—
from his birth and mission until the moment he was taken.
Glory be to Him who made another resemble him upon the cross;
glory be to Him who left Ali a blood-soaked body.
Lying upon the dust—O Mary—at the age of a rose.
Majestic was his form; none like him will ever be found.
By God, one could swear by his beauty—
but only through Muhammad can he be described.
I'm Layla and I lost my son—my heart burned.
O Mary, you too were a mother who lost.
Jesus was raised by God to the heavens—yet you were broken.
I saw the blood upon his neck, and my own neck bent with it.
His head upon a spear—it was as though my heart rose with him.
If morning itself were to die, O Mary, what use would tears be?
When the light of that face is revealed—
only through Muhammad can he be described.
I saw the father’s face turn pale, and I asked him:
“O father of al-Akbar, what is it? What did you see?”
He said: “Ibn Ghanim has come forth—I know his strength.
Against ten thousand men I count his charge.”
O Layla, pray that your son returns with prayer;
with tears and lament—O Lord, return him safe.
His face was pale over his son—
only through Muhammad can he be described.
I fainted and I collapsed—my fear paralyzed me.
O Mary, and I felt Ali kiss my forehead.
When I opened my eyes, I saw my son hugging me.
I said to him: “My son, I swear on you by your honor—no, do not cast me aside.”
He kissed my hands and left;
I went after him, stumbling and wailing.
He did not turn back—he saw the soldiers drawing near.
In moments of hardship one is known—
but only through Muhammad can he be described.
O Mary, in the fire of thirst his heart burned.
That river overflowed with water—yet they would not let him drink.
His throat dried from thirst; when he spoke, it was with force.
Like a branch upon his steed I saw him sway.
Whenever he sees the river—O Mary, I hear his sigh, his grief—
he would have prolonged his gaze,
like the Messenger in his estrangement.
And the idol-worshippers stood sworn against him—
but only through Muhammad can he be described.
They surrounded him from every side—my son was alone.
They struck his head, and my dream began to bleed.
He lay upon his horse—O horse, return him to the tents.
Blood covered the horse’s eyes and blocked its sight.
It did not return to the tents;
its path was lost, and he did not come back.
They had no mercy—O Mary, a warning has fallen.
That bitter confrontation and affliction—
only through Muhammad can he be described.
O Mary, how can a father’s heart endure over his son?
His pure beard was dyed from the flow of his slaughter.
He stretched himself over him, placing chest upon chest.
His words "may this world perish!" —would shatter your heart.
He returned carrying Ali; brought him to his aunt.
He did not bring him to me—
fearing I would die at the sight of him.
And the one who sipped his lips sip by sip—
only through Muhammad can he be described.
By God, move aside from Ali—let me be near him.
He is my son, and I wish to breathe in peace from his throat.
I will dye my gray hair red from this blood of his.
Let me die over him, and let death take his mother.
O Mary, a moon—his whole body pierced and stabbed.
If Jesus himself were present—by God—he would sit with me and weep.
only through Muhammad can he be described.”
