نعوا يوم الخميس إلي خالي — أحمد الكاشف

On Thursday they brought me word of my uncle’s death.

I said: gone are the handclasps of our nights.

After you, O Ali, can my soul delight

in lofty rank or abundant wealth?

Can any drink heal my torments

when now I choke even on pure water?

The turns of fate have barred my heart from rapture,

and from dalliance with boon companion or gazelle-like beloved.

Images of death have turned my gaze,

by their terror, away from every image of beauty.

Admonitions have come between my heart and desire—

admonitions about death, vast in scope.

I no longer long for my former days to return,

nor for the beloved’s promise of reunion.

Gently, my departed uncle—gently!

For you have shaken me and filled my thoughts.

You departed, though I had not seen you for an age

in which one state gave way to another.

Death overtook you suddenly, and you could not bid farewell

or give warning of this departure.

Contentedly you left the splendors of the world,

with your allotted share of eighty long years.

You left your aims behind after renouncing them,

and parted from wishes once freely at your disposal.

In goodness you were more all-embracing than the raincloud,

and amid calamities more steadfast than the mountains.

You won the hearts of loved ones and enemies alike

with manners gentler than the north wind.

Whenever you passed judgment, you ruled justly,

clearly distinguishing the forbidden from the lawful.

Fairer even than your modesty in youth

was your dignity in gray-haired maturity.

After my father and mother, you were dearer

to me than every companion and all my kin.

How many illustrious aims you cherished,

and strove for them amid spears drinking their fill of blood.

You were the helper who led me toward righteousness,

my great guide toward perfection.

You taught me archery and the craft of rhyme,

the arts of oratory and debate.

You inspired me with brilliant ideas

that I poured forth like lawful magic.

You made the paths and endeavors clear to me,

that I might attain every end difficult to attain.

Through your learning you steeped me in love of my faith,

my people, the Caliph, and the Crescent.

What counsels, then, have you left me—

what pure advice and precious wisdom!

Have you left me resolve enough to strive,

now that my traveling saddles stand tethered?

Can I hope to meet you in my lifetime,

when meeting you has become impossible?

Will the heavenly bliss you meet console you for my absence?

I, for my part, remain inconsolable.

I called to you—had you heard, you would have pitied my grief;

but how far your hearing is now from my appeal.

My tears obeyed the calamity of your loss, rebellious though they were;

your elegy made them flow freely, precious though they are.

They flood like a swelling sea, while my breast surges,

yet they cannot quench the fierce heat of my burning.

Though my calamity makes my eyes weep for you—

it has made noble virtues and high honors weep as well.

Paradise is yours: dwell there content

with your reward; remembrance and burning grief are mine.