I Search for Salahuddin.
With tears through dust upon my cheeks,
A madman in love with a soul,
I search for Salahuddin—
Reckless, wandering, broken-hearted—
Through the narrow streets of Fustat,
I call out: “O people, where is Salahuddin?”
They laugh, shake their heads,
“He is long gone,” they say.
“There is no more Salahuddin.
You waste your breath, your steps, your tears.
He will not return.”
And they walk past—eyes hollow, hearts asleep.
But I shout after them:
“The people are still waiting!
Like they waited for Muhammad bin Qasim in Al-Hind,
Like they longed for Sultan Fatih at the gates of Constantinople!”
They say I am possessed.
They see me at his mosque, praying and weeping,
A beggar of history, a lover of lions.
“Tell him to let go,” they mutter.
“Tell him to see sense.”
But I cannot.
For my brothers and sisters in Palestine
Cry without voices, die without names—
And still they whisper:
“Where is our Salahuddin?”
Though they know he is buried beneath centuries,
Their hearts still ache for him.
So I wander the lands that once sang of honour—
Damascus, Baghdad, Cairo, Al-Quds—
All now silent, their minarets echoing only ghosts.
I stumble, I fall, I rise again.
I bleed, I cry, I pray.
I search.
Around me, deaf ears wear golden crowns.
Blind eyes watch parades of polished swords—
Once raised for justice, now hung as decoration.
And the hearts? The hearts are sleeping.
I search for Salahuddin.
Across deserts that drink tears,
Through seas that remember his ships,
Down roads where the wind recites his name-
I walk.
And walk.
And walk.
I will search until I die.
And even then, let my grave be a signpost:
“He passed through here, searching for Salahuddin.”
