The Road Remembers

Come… Walk with me. Leave behind the noise of the world, Your titles, wealth, and hurried life. For on this road, the hearts depart From worldly burdens, pain, and strife. Today we walk—not toward a place, Nor monuments that time may claim. We walk toward one who gave his all, And fourteen centuries speak his name. Come… Walk with me. The morning sky has barely stirred, Yet Najaf wakes before the light. For love has risen with the dawn, And hearts prepare to make their flight. Backpacks rest on weary shoulders. A father ties his daughter’s shoe. A mother tends her little son, While old men join the journey too. An elder leans upon his cane, His aging limbs no longer strong. He smiles and takes his first small step, For love will help him press along. No one asks, “How far must we?” Their hearts know well for whom they came. For distance somehow loses weight When every step cries, “Ya Husayn.” Come… Walk with me. The road remembers empty hands, Soon filled by hands that own far less. A paper cup, a loaf of bread— A feast disguised in humbleness. A kettle sings before the dawn, Its rising steam warms morning air. An old Iraqi softly smiles: “Come, son… there’s always room to share.” The road remembers cups of tea, Poured slowly by a trembling hand, As though each drop were liquid gold, Drawn gently from a blessed land. A child no taller than my waist Extends a tray with joyful eyes. He owns so little in this world, Yet gives as though he owns the skies. One date. One loaf. One cup of soup. No banquet dressed in grand display. Yet kings have never served a meal As rich as this along the way. The road remembers weathered hands, Their wrinkles deepened through the years. They wash the dust from strangers’ feet, As though they washed away their tears. No cameras seek to find these souls. No headlines write their humble names. Yet every act the road records, And Heaven counts their hidden gains. The road remembers sightless eyes That never saw the pilgrims’ face, Yet somehow knew exactly where To meet them with a warm embrace. A blind old man extends his hand, Not asking who or whence you came. He cannot see the one he serves, Yet smiles as though he knows your name. The road remembers blistered feet That never ask how far remains. They do not measure miles ahead— Their love outweighs their aches and pains. The road remembers mothers too, Whose weary arms hold children near. They carry more than sons and daughters— They carry hope that conquers fear. The road remembers fathers’ backs, Bent low beneath both child and pack. Yet still those tired feet press on, For love will never turn them back. The road remembers trembling knees That time has slowly robbed of might. Yet aged hearts continue on, Their faces somehow burning bright. The road remembers unborn souls Who journey ere they see the sky. A mother walks through weariness, Her love alone explaining why. The road remembers those without The gift of sight to guide their way. Yet hands hold hands from pole to pole, And love becomes their eyes that day. The road remembers humble homes Whose doors refuse to close at night. Their walls are small—their hearts are not— They welcome all with pure delight. They save all year, not just to own, Nor gather comforts, wealth, or gold. They spend it all on passing guests, Yet leave with riches never sold. The road remembers boiling pots, Prepared throughout the day and night. Each bowl is filled, each plate is passed, Each pilgrim served with pure delight. The road remembers sleeping mats, Spread wall to wall across the floor. One blanket shared by three or four, Yet every guest is offered more. The road remembers little boys, Still rubbing sleep from youthful eyes, Yet carrying trays of cups of tea With smiles too precious to disguise. The road remembers little girls, With tiny scarves upon their heads, Who proudly offer dates and drinks, And trays of freshly broken breads. The road remembers hands that wash The dust from strangers’ aching feet. No servant asks, “Who are you?” Only, “Brother… come and eat.” The road remembers doctors too, Who set their daily work aside, To tend the wounds of weary feet And serve the lovers walking by. No pride in self. No worldly gain. Just pride enough to humbly say: “I had the honor to serve those Who walked toward Husayn today.” Come… Walk with me. The road remembers one old soul, Whose silver hair the years have blessed. Her trembling hands can scarcely pour, Yet still she will not stop to rest. I reach to take the kettle first. She smiles and gently draws it near: “My son, please leave this task to me. I’ve waited for this all the year.” Her back is bent. Her pace is slow. Each movement carries silent pain. Yet every cup she pours with love Seems somehow to restore her strength again. The road remembers every face, Though names are carried by the wind. For every stranger met that day Departs remembered as a friend. No language stands upon this road. No borders keep two hearts apart. A smile becomes a common tongue, The only passport is the heart. The road remembers dark and fair, The East and West beside the same. No color walks ahead of love. No race walks closer to his name. The scholar walks beside the poor. The wealthy walks beside the weak. And dust upon their clothes conceals The worldly ranks that people seek. The road remembers silent gifts Too small for cameras to admire: A bottle passed from hand to hand, A blanket when the nights grow dire. The road remembers one embrace— Two strangers meeting for the first, Yet parting like two lifelong friends, United by a common thirst. Not thirst for water. Bread. Or rest. But thirst to stand where Husayn stood, And tell the world that truth still lives, And sacrifice is understood. Come… Walk with me. The road remembers tired feet That greeted dawn before the sun. Yet none would ask, “How far remains?” But rather, “How far till we’re done?” The road remembers aching backs, Bent low beneath the midday blaze. Yet every burden carried there Becomes a form of humble praise. The road remembers blistered heels, Still wrapped in cloth, yet pressing on. For flesh grows weak and bodies tire, But hearts still urge the feet along. Pole after pole… The numbers fall. Each marker tells us we’re more near. And with each pole that’s left behind, The destination grows more dear. One step beyond the aching feet. One step beyond the restless mind. One step beyond the life we knew. One step—and leave ourselves behind. For every pole that’s left behind Leaves something else upon the road: A little pride. A little haste. A little more of yesterday’s load. Until the one who reaches there Is not the one who first began. The road did not just cross the earth… It crossed… The soul… Of man. Come… Walk with me. The road remembers every tear, Each whispered prayer, each faithful stride. For every foot that journeys there Keeps Karbala itself alive. For on Ashura, Husayn walked on, Toward Allah through the swords of men. On Arbaeen, by Allah’s grace, We walk toward Husayn once again. One journey climbed through sacrifice. One answers love’s eternal plea. The first was written with his blood. The second walks in loyalty. The road remembers every tongue, Though few may speak the words the same. Yet every smile becomes salaam, And every tear pronounces “Husayn.” For every step becomes a verse. Each heartbeat finds a sacred rhyme. And every soul that walks this road Steps somehow through the doors of time. The road remembers those who came Believing they had come to give, But somewhere on that sacred path They learned what it means to truly live. To be more kind. To be more true. To love beyond both self and pride. For those who reach the gates of Husayn Are changed before they have arrived. Come… Walk with me. And then… The walking slows. No voice commands. No signal comes. Yet every heart already knows: We’ve reached the One For whom we’ve come. One pilgrim points beyond the crowd: “I see it…” Softly… Almost afraid. Another bows his weary head. Another stops right there and prays. No trumpet sounds. No thunder rolls. No fanfare fills the open sky. Just one gold dome Against the sun… And suddenly… Grown men cry. Some fall upon the waiting earth. Some cannot move another pace. Some simply stand with trembling lips, While tears run freely down their face. The road remembers that first sight. No artist’s hand could paint that scene. For eyes behold the golden dome, But hearts behold what eyes can’t see. No one asks for food or drink. No one speaks of aching feet. For every hardship left behind Has led us to this sacred street. Some raise their trembling hands in prayer. Some fall upon the waiting land. Some simply whisper through their tears: “As-salamu alayka,
Ya Aba Abdillah…” And now… There is one truth I never spoke, Though every word I’ve shared was true. I’ve walked beside you from Najaf… But here… I must confess to you: I have never walked this road. I’ve never counted pole by pole. I’ve never felt its sacred dust Cling to my feet and touch my soul. I’ve stood beneath that golden dome. I’ve shed my tears beside his grave. I’ve known the peace of Ziyarat— The peace no worldly treasure gave. But every Arbaeen I watch That endless sea of loving hearts, And somewhere deep within my soul A wound of longing slowly starts. I see the elderly press ahead. I see the mothers bear the strain. I see the children serve the guests. And quietly… I ask again: “My Lord… When will it be my turn? When will my name receive the call? When will these feet join those who walk? When will I give Husayn my all?” O Lord of Husayn, hear my plea. Accept these tears that freely fall. If I am worthy in Your sight, Then let my name receive the call. Not for the crowd. Nor for the praise. Nor merely so that I was there. But let me walk because I love, And prove that love through every prayer. Then when at last You call my name To join that vast and blessed tide, Let every step erase my sins, With Husayn’s love to be my guide. The road remembers every tear. The road remembers every name. The road remembers every heart Consumed by love’s undying flame. So if one prayer outlives my voice, And one remains when all is done… My Lord… Let my next journey… Begin… Where Najaf ends… And Karbala… Has just begun. Labbayka Ya Husayn.