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You die.
Libyan.
Where is he, on the top of the letter?
And the poem continues to tell the life, the life of the imam.
The patient one.
It flows with some, and rises above the highest point, and the poem continues.
To tell the story of life, the life of the pious, patient imam.
A life that smiled with the light of certainty.
Absent from the lights throughout all ages.
Blind, yet he saw the bridge to salvation, while so many with sight,
lost the bridges, and so many with sight lost the bridges.
As if the sorrowful Thursday is near, and the sound of mourning.
It tightens the chests, but you do not build bridges.
Nor for separation, the question of the earthquake, all the lines.
A question that shakes all the lines, then the answer came, dragging its steps, and sadness.
He crowned the head of appearances, and the imam died, but he gave us to drink from his knowledge.
He filled the gaps.