Spring of Cordoba

Make the bed, O Jawad, in front of the Mountain of the Bride, and gently soothe me so I can rest upon it. I want to look at its snowy peaks, I want to carry in my mind its image to the other world. I do not know if I will be granted to see it again... The joy of looking is all I have left... I do not feel anything, neither warmth nor cold, neither sadness nor joy, neither regret nor hope. I see you burdening me with the cover, it is the same, O Jawad, this cover... And I appreciate that the cold still lingers over Cordoba, despite the buds of trees, the chirping of birds, and despite the sunlight... It is spring, the spring of Cordoba, but I do not feel anything. What I fear is that the hidden feeling in my soul is the autumn of Andalusia... I do not fear my autumn, O Jawad, for tomorrow I will meet God and humble myself before Him. My Lord, I have carried the trust and strived to fulfill its rights, so do not hold me accountable, my Lord, for what I have no power over. What I fear is the extinguishing of this glow of the light of Andalusia, which, God bear witness, I have struggled to carry.