He exclaimed to the tyrant's vicious throne,
Only to have his body later trampled and thrown.
He was the tzadik of the period,
And the weight of the world rested on his shoulders,
His spirit was vested with authority,
As he was a man of great superiority.
A true Renaissance Man,
His qualities unbound by time,
And his murder will remain an unforgettable crime.
And he worked towards
The land of mourning and tragedies,
A land he looked to seek support,
Where the people had other interests to exhort.
Our majesty was led into a trap.
One by one, his family slaughtered,
Rivers of blood spilled and dozens of men killed,
And a baby murdered, as his arms flapped.
Like a bird,
back, forth, up, and down.
With his sword drawn, the falling Hero valiantly Stood,
Against an army that no other man could,
Would they kill the heir of the prophets?
Harm the neck kissed by the Prophet with such tender love?
A man who sat on the Prophet's shoulders as a boy,
Thrown down and trampled like a children toy
Whose body was filled with arrows, resembling a porcupine,
Killed by men with absolutely no spine.
And physically, they could not recognize you,
But deep in our hearts our spirits are with you!
Our tears are shed like the blood from your neck,
As you taste the salt and pus we cry for your day of wreck.
Your physical body so shamed in the aftermath of the storm,
Only to be resurrected into a deserving new form.
No day like your day,
And every day is your day.
For we have dedicated our lives,
To not let your sacrifice go in vain.
A Timeless Revolution,
An endless revolt.
We will Stand where you can no longer stand.
And pick up your sword and fight throughout the land,
The tale of your tragic fate will continue to expand,
For it is the anthem of our lives,
And the song in our graves.