The Moon with No Hands — A Lament for Abbas ibn Ali (AS)
“Loyalty walked on the battlefield — and its name was Abbas.”
The sun of Karbala had burned the sky,
And every shadow dared to die.
But in the camp where children wept,
A river’s name in silence slept.
The tents were dry, the cradle stilled,
The hearts of babes with thirst were filled—
And Abbas rose, his eyes alight,
The brother’s lion, born of might.
He was not asked, “Go forth and fight,”
But “Bring us water through the night.”
And though the war drums shook the air,
He only sought the stream with care.
His hands were strength, his arms were shields,
Unbroken through a thousand fields—
Yet he unsheathed no blade for pride,
But for the tears his sister cried.
He reached the stream—O blessed tide!
The moon bent down, the river sighed—
But did he drink? No drop, no taste.
He turned instead in solemn haste.
“O soul, you are nothing if you drink,
While Hussain still stands upon the brink.”
He filled the flask—hope’s final breath—
Then turned to ride through rain of death.
But coward’s hands, in ambush low,
Struck from the side a treacherous blow.
One arm fell—yet still he rode.
Another blow—and blood now flowed.
Two arms were gone, but faith remained—
He clenched the reins with blood and pain.
They shattered his eye, his forehead torn,
His banner pierced, his shield was worn—
Yet still he pressed, a ghost, a flame,
Until the final arrow came.
He called, “Brother... come... I cannot see...
Forgive me... I could not bring thee...”
And Hussain came, heart cracked and wide,
And knelt where Abbas’ dreams had died.
He placed his head upon his lap,
The moon now fading into ash—
And whispered low through tears and dust,
“O my Abbas... return you must...
You were my right, my heart, my light—
Now all is dusk, and none is right...
The tents will cry, the orphans moan,
For you have left me all alone.”
O Abbas!
The river mourns, the flag still bleeds,
Where loyalty outlived its needs.
You gave your arms, yet held your creed—
You died for love, not war or greed.
No martyr fell so true, so high—
The moon with no hands lit the sky.
And Karbala will echo still
The vow you kept upon that hill.
🌕 May your loyalty water our hearts.
May we carry your flag though our hands tremble.
Forever our Moon, forever the Guardian of Thirst.