More luminous than the moon—O Uncle Abbas!

Abbas—the lonely brother,
Abbas—the steadfast gaze that pierces the dust-stained tents of the Ahl al-Allah,
a gaze that steals strength from the hands of the flag-bearer,
and withers the will of the thirsty waterman of Karbala.

But the waterman came not...
The Mir, the standard-bearer, did not return...
O moon more radiant than the moon—O Uncle Abbas!

Abbas—the silent sentinel whose eyes searched the heavens for permission,
his heart scorched by the flames of the children’s thirst,
by the burning glances of Sakina and Ruqayyah,
and by the parched lips of a brother whose silence screamed grief.

With hands wet from the Euphrates—hands that would soon be severed—
he wiped the dust from the cheeks of orphans,
as if to quench thirst with a caress,
as if to silence pain with loyalty.

And Abbas—
Abbas burned with a fever no water could soothe,
burned with a grief that no cry could carry.
He staggered under the weight of his sorrow
and sought permission from his master, his brother, to enter the field of no return...

Tonight—
Tonight is the sorrowful eve of Karbala’s banner-bearer,
a night when loyalty becomes legend,
and dawn brings severed hands,
so that a flag may never fall.

O Abbas—pillar of Hussain in his hours of abandonment,
you—who with dry lips and blood-filled eyes,
with arms torn from their sockets,
still bore the musket of fidelity upon your shoulders,
so that loyalty might be named, and nobility remembered.

Tell us, O Abu Fadhil—
what secret passed between your soul and the soul of loyalty?
What oath did you whisper to honor, to grace?

O Luminous Moon of Bani Hashim,
tonight, every restless heart bears your sorrow,
every weeping eye whispers your name,
and at the threshold of your broken shrine,
we learn dignity—
we drink from the fountain of your loyalty.

O Abu Fadhil,
grant us tonight—
a single drop of your unwavering devotion.

May Allah bless you, O Aba Abdullah.