 A poem titled, The Dictators Who Say. You were not of his time, nor have your eyes seen his face. Yet you cry and mourn his death as if you wish to take his place. Tell me how this love for a man you do not know has magically become the only purpose for your soul. Perhaps it's just a reaction to a story you've been told. But surely, this is a bid'ah upon our religion, you've behold. I say to those who mock the tears we cry for al-Hussain, tell me how you hear the truth and yet you still refrain. You dare to say we innovate a grief upon Islam? When the Prophet's blood his very flesh will stain upon the sands? For you is yours, for me is mine. No words could bring to light. The truth that you defy so hard, the blind still left with sight. I wonder how the day will be when God will lift the veils. And then you'll see the truth you hate and the family that prevails. A king does not leave his throne for the people to decide. Nor did he the Prophet, though the truth you try to hide. It's in your books as well as ours. The Prophet raised his hand. For whoever I'm his master, Ali is your Imam. Salli ala Muhammad wa ala Muhammad.