Oh Ali Al Asghar
A tiny hand grips his father’s neck,
A bleeding stem in a world of wreck.
A six-month rose, too pure to bloom,
Crushed too soon in the desert's doom.
"Just one drop," the father pleads,
To save the little white rose from its deepest needs.
But the arrow strikes like a winter storm,
Tearing the flower so soft and warm.
The crimson petals spill on the cloak,
As the universe weeps for the stem that broke.
The sweetest rose now softly sleeps.
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