Blessed are you, O grave of the Messenger of Allah—
blessed the land that shelters the righteous, rightly-guided one.

Blessed, too, the niche that clasps within you a fragrant trust—
over it a covering of well-laid, ordered slabs.

Hands, and eyes brimmed full of tears, heap earth upon him—
so much that even the tear-channels sink away.

That evening they concealed forbearance, knowledge, and mercy—
when they shrouded him in soil, without cushion or pillow.

They departed, while my grief remained; their Prophet was no longer in their midst—
backs and arms alike grown feeble under sorrow’s weight.

They mourn the one for whom the very heavens wept that day—
and for whom the earth lamented; how much more, then, humankind, sunk in gloom.

Has any loss of mortal ever equalled
the calamity of the day Muhammad passed away?

With that, the house of revelation was severed from them—
a light that once delved deep and soared aloft.

Whoever followed him was guided to the All-Merciful—
rescued from the terror of disgrace and shown the way.

A striving leader, directing them to truth—
a teacher of sincerity; should they obey him, they prosper.

He pardoned slips and welcomed their excuses—
and when they did good, Allah was yet more generous in bounty.

And when a burden came that they could not bear—
from him came ease for what had grown severe.

Thus they lived within Allah’s bounty, and in their very midst—
was a guide by whom the straightest path is sought.

It pained him that they might swerve from guidance—
he yearned for them to stand upright and be led aright.

Compassionate toward them, he never folded back his caring wing—
he gathered them into his shelter, gentle and prepared.

While they were basking in that light, there came—aimed true—
an arrow of death that struck their very illumination.

So, praised, he returned unto Allah—
the Lord of the Emissaries weeps for him and extols him.

The hallowed lands fell desolate, their precincts bleak—
for gone was the revelation they had long received.

They lay as barren wastes—save the inhabited grave that welcomed him—
a loss over which paving-stones and thorn-trees weep.

His mosque—how desolate it seemed through losing him—
stands empty, though within it his station and his seat endure.

At the Great Jamrah as well, his dwellings, courts, and birthplace—
all spaces there grew lonely at his absence.

So weep, O eye, for the Messenger of Allah with flowing tears—
and let me never see the day your waters cease.