In every place and time there lies
a blood stained kerbala land
where people die with martyr´s blood
which stains the yellow sand
perhaps a place within our minds
which kills all false ideas
but with it love and peace are pushed
to fall and disappear
like Hussain on the battlefield
or Hasan´s poisoned cup
we seem to live history anew
by thoughts which do corrupt
Silently we think our thoughts
from places dark inside
which reaps a battle outwardly
which never does subside
and then we mourn as saints the men
whose blood they left behind
not knowing we ourselves did kill
by our false thoughts in mind
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