The strikes of the enemy, leaves marks on the face of this lady, her status high
Strikes from the sword of Imam Husayn, like lightning, illuminating dark melancholia's days separating
the truthful ;
from the hypocrites, hiding amongst the masses, pockets full of golden tokens, filling up the space of the bartered souls
Like Lightning, flashes, fear into the frozen hearts, afraid to be exposed, hiding behind calls of praise 'great is Yazid'
Over the Sand Dunes, he appears in sight, Turban, Pride, Sword in his arm, love in his left, compassion on his tongue, the moon in his face, faith in his heart, "Is it Muhammad, is it Ali?"
"Remove that light from the plains of Kerbala"
"Look how it moves the spilled blood to boil and tell tales of Valiance, of Honor, of Pride, of Islam"
The Sun moves in closer, to greet him, to say its salutations, to help him
The closer it comes, the more pain that it causes, it wishes that it were the Clouds so that it can cry and pour
to rain a quench to those babies cries, but Yazid aims his arrows high!!!
Kauwthar shouts out, "Alas Alas make haste make haste at Last I will serve you the most fruitful quench, after which you will never thirst again"!!!
Strikes On The Face Of Our Dear Lady
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