Someone like you does not die

 Mujahid al-Suraymi — Sana’a:

How harsh were those hours—the hours before the announcement of the catastrophe! Hours of anticipation and waiting, hours of longing that thirsted for your presence, and yearning beyond description to place our souls before you, hearts rushing toward your countenance.

And why wouldn’t our souls be lost in your love, when you are the pinnacle of courage, honor, nobility, generosity, mercy, humility, forgiveness, aid, sacrifice, piety, integrity, awareness, insight, love for people, closeness to them, bearing their burdens, defending them from oppression, poverty, and tyranny, and siding with the oppressed regardless of the cost?

How could hearts not gather around you, almost uprooting your seat from the earth to place it there, ensuring that no one disputes the honor of embracing you?

O our victory after centuries of defeats, and our pride after ages of humiliation. O our time, which was no time before you, and the essence of existence for our Arab humanity, which remained prey to forces of alienation and dependency, a target for excommunication and obscurantism, ridden by empires of evil, movements of injustice and misguidance, and regimes of tyranny and arrogance, with no homeland to shelter it, no mountain to hide behind, no shade to protect it. The lineages were barren until (Nasr) rose, and the masses wandered like phantoms, following every clamor, chasing every illusion. Nothingness was our abode from the ocean to the Gulf; we were mere puppets in wax museums. Neither the left rained beneficially, nor the right gave anything. Religion and secularism were equalized; atheists and monotheists were challenged under the banner of America, and all accepted it as their god, adhering to the law of the Samaritan, and all were led to the bed of Zionism.

Then the hand of Ruhollah appeared, with the Iranian people’s revolution, but its light was not allowed to pass through the veils of Arab misguidance. Wahhabism opened doors to conflict and division, while traders succeeded each other in buying and selling everything in us and around us—until you came. You were water and light and air, love and war, tear and smile, the meaning we had lost and through which we were lost, until you resurrected us at the dawn of the third millennium, restoring our self-confidence, affirming our existence as victors in the July 2006 war.

How could we not weep for you, O Vengeance and Victory of God, when you were the entirety in one, existence made active and impactful?

They did not kill you; yet they killed us the moment you ascended as a martyr. But surely, O Master of Victory, O Leader of Hearts, you will not vanish. This is our consolation, the station of our patience, the balm of our wound. O Sacrifice of Karbala in the suburbs: you are the sun of time, and the place is yours, and the act continues to grant you leadership. The battlefield is yours, the nights and days your pages—write upon each one that the time of defeats is over.

O most complete among those in whom we saw Ali in guidance, and Hussein in path and journey:

The likes of you do not die.

And you alone remain, whose image and voice still illuminate hearts and minds, O our eternal victory:
Until we meet again in martyrdom, until we meet again in the triumph of blood over the sword.

If you want, I can also create a more literary, emotionally charged version suitable for publication or tribute in English that preserves the full poetic resonance of the original.