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.
