The door that struck;
And crushed my lady,
The nail that tore;
And punctured my hope,
The gloom that spread;
That night of doom, and
The sorrow that filled
The house of Ali.
The moon that witnessed,
The silent burial;
After the sun had lowered,
Its face in shame.
The rose from heaven,
That left its fragrance;
After it was plucked in haste,
From its earthly resting.
The mother of four,
And a fifth left unborn:
Zainab, Kulthum, Hasan and Husain.
For Mohsin who will mourn,
More than his father Ali,
Who lost first his brother,
Now his wife through such pain.
Every time we relive and experience,
In Kufa, the striking of Ali,
Every time we remember,
In Madinah, the poisoning of al Hasan,
Every moment we mourn,
In Karbala, the beheading of al Husain,
Every time we are stunned,
In Toos, by the treachery against al Ridha,
Every moment when we call,
On the earth, Al Ajal ya Mahdi!
Every breath we hear an echo,
From the skies: Ya Zahraa!
The lovers’ souls are ripped,
Torn with anguish,
When they see no stone,
To mark where she lies.
The scorching fire of love,
Is awakened in them, and
Their frenzied calls fill the sky.
When they ask every time:
Bi ayyi dhambin qutilat yaa Zahraa?
Bi ayyi dhambin.. yaa Zahraa?
