The Last Drop: A Poem for Ali al-Asghar (AS)
The Infant Martyr of Karbala
In the cradle of dust, where angels weep,
Lay a child who knew no sin, no sleep.
Six moons old, not yet of word or will—
Yet destined by Heaven to climb the hill.
His eyes, like stars, too pure for this place,
Reflected the sorrow on Hussain’s face.
No sword in hand, no armor worn,
Just a dry tongue and lips weathered, torn.
The tents were quiet. The sky held its breath.
The battlefield paused for a softer death.
A babe, not soldier—yet summoned to stand,
Cradled by a father with trembling hand.
“O people, if I have wronged your kin,
If I hold power, or treasure, or sin—
Then take me, not him!” the father cried.
But silence was all that replied.
Then a hiss through the air, a serpent unseen,
A shaft with no mercy, silent and mean.
It tore through the throat of the heavenly bloom,
And time stood frozen in Karbala’s gloom.
The child shuddered, a whisper, a sigh—
His blood the ink for the story we cry.
Hussain caught each drop with a trembling palm,
The storm in his chest disguised as calm.
He turned to the sky, his soul aflame:
“Accept this gift, in Your Holy Name!”
Even the heavens lowered their gaze,
Ashamed to witness such crimson blaze.
No grave was dug, no shroud was tied,
Just the arms of a father where he’d died.
He buried his son in the arms of dust,
A trust with Allah, a sacred trust.
And still we wail, year after year,
For the child whose cry the skies still hear.
Ali al-Asghar, a name so small—
Yet it echoes louder than tyrants fall.
🕊 He never spoke, but his silence roared.
🩸 A martyr’s cry in a child’s accord.
💔 O baby of Hussain, we will not forget.
🕯 Your final breath, our hearts’ debt.