It's the sixth of Muharram and we just cried about Qasim The little hall is getting fuller, but my inhaler's there to rescue when it wasn't there to save Sakina from the flames at Sham-e-Ghariba Or help to heal As-Sajjad and make him a bit stronger.
The tension's rising, because I have never been, and Iraq is in so much undeserved trouble And the mosque's gotta close by twelve or the authorities'll get to ya. And we don't want that to happen.
The saf is rushed, and words pronounced wrong seven year old's are joining the adult one even though they know they're too short because no one's taught 'em how to do it
It's gham time and the Maulana's rushing it, quickening the masaib so as not to go overtime
Sitting and observing and trying to see it as an outsider It's all so beautiful the tears for goodness and the community spirit We're not terrorists trying to take over the world We're Hussainis, try'na help it
A horribly written poem about the general atmosphere at a Khoja Shia Mosque right now. If the context and explanation is wanted, don't hesitate to let me know. It'd be really quite interesting if you like history, politics and philosophy.