Elegy for Sa'd ibn Abu Bakr

The hearts of strangers bleed for you; I don't know how the hearts of your own kin must feel. How can I hold back the reins of weeping when patience has slipped from my grasp? Is the king not coming to the center of his army? For the royal banner lies overturned. No more greenery will sprout at the water's edge, for the rain now falls as floods of blood. The springs run the color of Siyavash's spilled blood; their waters are crimson as red jujube. Do not ask patience of a soul torn from its beloved, for the burden is far beyond this wretched one's strength. I once said, one should stay calm in the burning fire; but calm is also the only cure. For this world is a faithless, bloodthirsty master, and time a loveless, base mother. The cruelty of the age is not new to us; it has run on from Adam's day until now. I don't know what this letter says, but I can see its heading is written in blood. The great ones wait with watching eyes and hearts; the nobles count the hours and the moments. The servants scatter pearls and gems; the maids adorn their arms and wrists. Malik Khan, Miyaq, Badr, and Tarkhan ride out on swift Arabian steeds, to bring the just king Sa'd Abu Bakr into the palace hall of kings. The women of the harem rejoice on the arched roof, ready to shower pearls upon his crown. The earth said, from now on we'll live in delight; the sky replied, only if they let us. They hoped for the crown and royal throne, unaware they would carry in his coffin instead. What has become of the fair faces of the harem, that they cast straw on their heads and dust on their jewels? One should not tear one's clothes or claw one's face, for people are subject to the Creator's command. Yet with a grief this scorching to the heart, it cannot be that they raise no cry. Yes, the bereaved may weep; it is fitting that the wronged should wail. I don't know what this letter says, but I can see its heading is written in blood. That thriving rosebush went with a gust of wind, leaving only regret, an outcry, and a memory. The eye that learns from grief might sleep a while, if only this flood of blood would cease. What can one say to the turning of time? This base age will never raise such nobility again. The wheel of the world will never bring forth again a wise, pure-blooded man like him. The wise ones of old spoke truly: I wish my mother had never given me birth, that my eyes had never existed, so they might not have seen such fire fall upon the world. Those who wished him well had imagined a refuge had come to shore up the state. The time had come for that proud one to set the royal crown upon his head. What a day it was for that renowned tree, which gave the garden its spring and its fruit. But the evil eye lay in ambush, and a fierce wind swept him from his garden. I don't know what this letter says, but I can see its heading is written in blood. After the death of the young, may no rose ever bloom; after the rose is gone, may no nightingale sing in the meadow. No one knows a friend's worth while he lives, may no one ever learn it this way. That fresh flower went into the ground in sorrow; may the morning breeze make roses grow from his bones. He left this sweet world in bitterness; may pure, sweet water be poured into his throat. The days of Sa'd Abu Bakr have ended; may God bring him into His mercy. As the reward for dying thirsty in a strange land, may he receive wine from the Prophet's own hand. In that other world, may God, from the unseen realm, shower His mercy upon his head. Whoever's heart does not burn at this grief, may God set that heart aflame in this same fire. In this world may the just, victorious king, his renowned Muhammad, endure. May fortune grant him the glow of good men, and nurture him in the ways of the righteous. May God lift the soul of Sa'd, with the spirit of Abu Bakr, to the heights of rest and peace. And with his friends content and his fortune triumphant, may he pass many an age to come. I don't know what this letter says, but I can see its heading is written in blood.