A Poem Mourning the Prophet’s Descendant and Condemning His Killing

Even if Ali is a mother-killer, though he knew they'd assassinate him and deceive Ali's lookalike, he stayed in his courtyard. Not even two steps did the bombs drive him back.

His white beard, the beard of his grandfather, the rabble reach out their hands toward it.

They'd assassinate him because he tattooed the word “infidel” on his forearm, and took pride in it, flaunting it.

Do you know who this bearded man is? Yes, of course.

He is not unknown, and you are not ignorant.

Do you forget who you are and forget your roots?

Does Quraysh forget its elder, and the tribes?

O people, he is the son of your Prophet's daughter.

By my life, this bitter scene is complete.

Here the body remains where it won its glory, while caravans goad on, bearing the shame of those who stayed silent.

How noble a beard and turban they are, a thousand years old, against God's folly.