In the strong milieu of blasphemy one can survive, but in the ambient of violence one can’t ~Imam Ali(as) ~
from the forgotten land, And
Perish in the stoney heart of this night.
Nothing remains. Again,
my life disappears,
through the darkest prisons of the night.
Night ! with the crowded clouds accompanying it,
strides from house to house,
in the stillest tomb of its heart,
buries the life of each house.
All famished was it of ages ,
for it devoured alive the moon, stars,
and the sun ,
Vast like a desert is it,
So i find of these none.
Ours is the tree of sorrow,
Nursed by the night with a mild care,
Never its breaths languish ever,
in each season it revives its might.
In this windowless prison,
Am feasted the platefuls of ash,
In its deep dark corners,
i only here of but my countrys’ crash.
Heartless is the night,
that gives me naugh to collect,
other than the exploits of my own self.
Tyrant is the night but great,
that gives birth to a thousand nights a moment.