Opiumistan

Contempt has’t seed, and for loam, that nation;
windswept worthless by waste land’s whisper,
thirsting if not, then too drunk on privation,
to liberate the lesser souls from its elixir.
From wine, white to red, and ecstasy, only woe,
drawing now and ever, the tragic art of war,
to which hath fallen many, too many without foe;
souls of better men, whom contempt is not for.

Midnight Express

Each dusk from hope outworn by day
a dawn is dreamt of as I lay,
yet bares it through not hourly veils
its visage for it night conceals,
instead what rushes through the dark
and sings out ceaseless as a lark
tis the midnight express steaming
keeping me from thusly dreaming;
Nowhere from and nowehere to
burdened by a soul nor reason,
it travels endless deserts through,
restless hermit fears no season.
In moments black and hours unholy
it awakens me and reminds me solely;
“rest can never come from resting
dawns are dreamt to not dreamt of,
life is from one breath nor many,
hope is worn by age and wisdom,
fear is for fools, sages and men
as freedom lies in the dark unknown.”

Akaasi 21: Muse

To each his wont, each man his want,
and to each muse, her silent might
with which her lover she does haunt,
his rest of days, and all his nights.

Winds of Change

Quiver the leaves while bathed in orange
breath of the winter dawn and its sun,
quiver for now, then without abhorrence
do fall in the arms of fate, they are done,
while known not to you O wearied child
is yonder thy lattice, weaved by the pane,
are the winds of change, of fate, unmild
embraced yet hither unfelt all the same.
Painting the walls a capricious vermilion
its cadence, time, and its time, this dawn
the hour of change sits upon that pillion
which for a steed has our fate, now drawn.
They shall not return, if left unheeded,
not for our children or theirs when needed
the winds of change once left shall heave
no longer O wearied, O wearied believe.

A Love Forgotten, Of Which I Wondered

I wonder if the sound of silence is, falling of a dewdrop late,
I wonder if the sound of patience is, waiting in the aisles of fate,
I wonder what eludes all reason, words aramaic written on my wall,
I wonder if the parting leaves of autumn know the secrets of fall,
for this wall is my companion, to indolent skies I pray,
heavens that heed no worship and Idols shaped out of clay,
I wonder why the Ha’it ul Buraq venerates Babylon to seem Holy
yet the cherubim guarding life’s tree, forbids me to bathe in your glory,
where light mates with true darkness, where a ship mates with its shore,
lies my event horizon the sight of you save for your door,
I wonder if the sound of hope is, my soul that sings evermore,
I wonder if the sound of tragedy is, mourning a dying love sore,
upon my wall, the aramaic, I do wonder if I should read it,
reads it Lo! “ever and always, the meaning of life shall be zenith”.

Ramz al Sumud (Hope of Palestine)

Of life who bears the burden, who
of liberty sought must carry too.
By nations, dubbed who is a mother,
of freedom, dubbed a lover true.
With no home who roams the valley
gathering olives from Nablus’ fields
lights its bark to kindle her galley
which victuals for her unborn yields.
Of Gaza, its soul, is barred this dove,
to violence returns a rebellion of love,
shall birthen when our dream unknown,
she, the Ramz al Sumud our own.

Dark Water’s Game (The Flood)

I still hear the sound of its silent march
reaching and rising, that dark waters game.
Drowned the dreaming, it, always shall parch
my sore hearted throat, all morrows the same.
Tide into tide and into tide rolled darkness
until of what remained I could draw only death,
floating in my hours, in my gaze thoughtless
soulless those vessels of life sans breath.
There shall not ever, from that lifelessness
come to remembrance pasts visage untainted
nor shall emerge, from that endlessness
a hope which to hope may be acquainted.
Yet I do not mourn the many fields now lost
nor the memories reddened by the river of mud
not even my ones kindred or their life it cost
but the fact that I remained to witness the flood.

The Wisdom of Sacrifice

Wisdom does not reside, nor resides selflessness
in mourning a mulberry’s demise or its bare arms.
For the sacrifice of more than countless,
always more, never less,
yields but a piece of futile silk,
a piece, not even a yarn.

Midnight Solstice

I may not call forth more than naught
of what hath been my morn and eves,
the scent of weeping lanterns as ought
should hath wept our ashen leaves.
Perhaps there were some tears or few,
of fate, of skies, I never knew,
but surely not of theirs ‘stead mine
were shed for memories good and fine.
Their perfume lingers still somewhere
‘midst still burning breathless breeze,
and naught but starry skies in pair
with rhambic shadowed mango trees.
Too much hast come, as much hast past
yet memory doth not tantam’ last,
to what end bathed my violet hill
such fruits of gold, but visceral.
For what is night to days of wander,
and what is day to nights in dreams,
solstice hearkens fall but yonder
thus life must flow anon it seems.
I may not call forth more than naught,
yet I dost remember mourning dust,
how heavy falls the silent unsought
while in its wake hear life we must.
Perhaps there were some tears or few,
for joy, for love, perhaps in rue,
but surely not of these ‘stead mine
lay there the wreath of bleeding vines.
Somewhere I left myself in passing
summer days midst midnight splendour
and all that lead to moments lasting
lead to moments such lasting more
as that which I then grew to wonder
of that day, that night in culmin’
I dost recall that solstice summer,
and that scent from trees that sin.
For what is night to days of wander
spent in wait for nights in dreams,
eternal is not thought or wonder
yet feeble is more life it seems.