Never, o Zahra, shall we forget Husayn.

Who are these people, dressed in black clothes,
And from their eyes, rivers of tears flow?
Every year they gather and tell the tale complete
And weep and strike their chests with grief
Ten nights for ten heroes, all without compare
And all the tragedies relived on The Tenth Day
But some tragedies end as others just start
And more to come, more to break the heart
The sick one, the children, the women all captive
Yet still able to leave their tyrants in rapture
Wherever they go, torture and tragedy follow
And kept alive is this tale of great sorrow
These stories are told over and over again
For another forty days to add to the ten
And those who can, go visit that special land
Where holy blood was mixed with sand
Walking on foot, in their millions they arrive
A fire in their hearts that will not subside
On and on towards the King who rules their heart
Each step a renewed pledge to stay on his path
This devotion a part of their destiny and fate
And the true understanding of love and hate

There is only one way to measure love, the poets say.
“Love is measured in sacrifice”; no other way.
And so this tale of grief is also a tale of love
Not worldly love, but that for the Divine above
Seventy-two brave lions set aside their souls
In exchange for what would make them whole
Men aged and old to child and youth
Gladly exchanged their lives for truth

And from Husayn’s family the best of examples
Akbar, who was the Prophet’s own likeness
Qasim, who claimed death sweeter than honey
Asghar the sinless infant 6 months old
Killed for what crime we are not told.
Abbas, the brave, the gallant, the loyal
Matchless servant to the House of Purity
Denied his wish to quench the thirst of children
Giving his arms and then his soul in his mission
Husayn himself, the sacrifice supreme
Giving everything for the pleasure of His Lord
Till nothing was left except for his pure soul
The heftiest price to keep the religion whole
Sajjad, the captive ill one too sick to fight
Zaynab, his sister, witness of the tragedy
In captivity, and after, they kept the tale alive
From then till now, the remembrance thrives

Who are these people, dressed in black clothes,
And from their eyes, rivers of tears flow?
They are a promise made to the mother of Husayn
A nation will arise to ensure his legacy remains
Karbala and its history keeps their souls alive
Unites them and prevents the sects of divide
So they keep alive and tend this eternal light
And gather and grieve and their chests strike
Each strike a blow to the enemies of the Prophet,
Each strike a consolation to his daughter,
Each strike in grief of the tragedies of Husayn,
Each strike a promise to on his path remain,

ابد والله يا زهراء ما ننسى حسينا
Never, o Zahra, shall we forget Husayn.