My hand writes for the hand that holds my heart,
My hand writes when his praises my lips can't start,
For him who knows my sorrow before I know my own,
And him who assists me while to me he's unbeknown,
The soul that I neglect, and yet I am his concern,
And while I search for comfort, it is him for whom I yearn,
I write for the mercy that descends whilst I wander in the dark,
The flood that drenches sincere souls and lets them board his ark.
He whose generosity to the stingy knows no bounds,
And his benevolence, the wretched it surrounds,
The way a noble master still cares for his lowly slave,
And rather than avenging him, he tries his best to save.
And why not? When from a household of divine mercy he comes,
And a household of nobility to which all royalty succumbs,
Fathers who humble humility and make bravery feel small,
And the mother of all mothers, of women- the best of all.
My hand writes for the hand that holds my heart,
For him from whom it hurts to be apart,
He whose mention fills my heart with joy,
And even the worst of sorrows, his names alone destroy,
The rays of hope that shine through clouds of despair,
The guardian to whom I entrust every affair.
What worry exists when I have such a master?
What is failure, and what is disaster?
I am not worthy but he is so high,
A servant who calls him, how can he deny?
My hand writes for the hand that holds my heart,
For the one who helps his lover and then will suddenly depart,
For him whose love overpowers any other,
A sister will leave her brother, a son will part from his mother,
Just to be with the master they've never seen,
And yet somehow, his lovers they have always been.
Minds are left boggled and thinkers, insane,
Only those who believe in divinity remain,
If ever someone claims to know what love is,
Show him Habib and Abbas and Aabis,
Such love is not mortal nor is it mundane,
It is this love in which immortal legends are slain,
How it is I wonder, that some deny his being,
When loving him is greater proof than even hearing him or seeing.
My hands rise for the hand that holds my heart,
For the veils between us to one day fall apart,
For the clouds to move and the sun to wake us all,
The triumph of truth and of falsehood, its downfall.
But with more anguish I raise my hands again,
Not for anyone- but for me and my own gain,
I raise my hands to one day be with him,
For the flame of my heart never to be found dim,
I raise my hands to not be the cause of his sorrow,
To bury yesterday deep and succeed instead tomorrow,
To have a heart of iron, unswayable from truth,
I raise my hands to be accepted in my youth,
To be the cause, just once, of his glowing, treasured smile,
Defeat the demons on the other side of every given trial.
I raise my hands to answer his call on the awaited day,
When crowds of sobbing servants for their king shall make way,
When his beauty will leave poets without words with which to speak,
And speakers will be speechless, their trained tongues numb and weak,
Wealth would lose all value, the only currency- his love,
The ornament of the heavens has descended from above.
I raise my hands to see his light even if it blinds my eyes,
For the one that healed prays behind him, for whom a nation is baptised,
I raise my hands for his hand to pass my lowly head,
To touch the holy sand on which his blessed feet tread,
To drown in his love and to die in that state,
To be lead by his hand towards heaven's gate,
And to somehow have some words left in my heart,
So with the angels singing his praises, I can also take part.
