Thus only in the failing hour of our enraged phantom
did we stand witness to the omens of its raging dawn;
t’was anxious in its light, and terrible in its ascension,
as ‘then’ lay decayed mocked by a ‘now’ it stood upon.
Fate as such, when roams unbound by moral or reason
roams unfound by none but the merchants of chaos;
we, who shall not forget, the flags of whitened treason
and by virtue peace fore our virtue of mad disgrace.
To the leaves that turn in our tide,
to the thorn that bleeds in my side,
to that angel in whom I confide,
and that demon with whom I preside
on the council of will, and decide
what all senses incessantly deride,
while the time and the life I divide
regardless of fate coincide.
To the wind that changes the season,
and changes that dawn without reason,
Hear me my people! with lucid intent
I am a scoundrel, I yearn for descent.
To indolence whose borders are wide,
to sloth and to greed your close guide,
to lust which you bed as a bride,
and the raging war from inside,
to love, loss, wounds and to pride,
as well morals in red hanging dried,
to your laws by which you abide,
yet question their purpose beside.
For the taste of mortality I did attempt,
thus fell from my throne I a discontent.
Hear me O’fallen, embrace and consent
mould me as flawed, lest I lament.
Wishful thought I O eternity thyne ,
now do regret I tasting such wine.
To heal that wound on this soul of mine
I feigned being blind to our rising sign.
Beyond horizons which were once in time
twixt fatuate virtue and vice benign,
from remnants of grace but thoughts malign
to fall this under I did not resign.
And Adam and Eve, of your legacy fine
forgive thee thy children for fates design.
Hear me thus progeny, ill fated and wronged,
in pursuit of some feeling, living I longed,
but Remember forever, from this parted sun
sans death all mortals immortals are one.
Scarlet I must always turn to
scarlet of burnt summer eves,
golden flakes of passive heaves
dirt and dust which redden hue
of wine’ful taste, scent’est henna
unto’ich spake the flowers of war,
naught a reason they grew for
but which due I dub them scilla.
Drunk on fallen dew their’s yonder,
memory mine is tempt to wander
far from this sweet valley Wana
fragrant as deep scarlet henna.
Passing I must always turn to
passing suns in mournful too,
fading fragrance with each noon,
to Hearkened dark, O! come thee soon.
Of where to has trodden darling
and where hath joy trodden to,
scent no more, no more of parting
henna burning summers through.
Shadows creep on the desert floor,
beneath the sullen stray grieving sky,
betwixt imprudence, this insidious amore,
Hark! O wasteland, thus you and I.
Every now and then at fringes,
of my red and dripping sight,
Fallen angels grasping torn pages,
on dunes of sand do just alight.
What read thou, O lifeless leaves?
which way doth my war earn scorn?
for whom doth thy dear holder grieve?
is it I, of roses the hurtful thorn?
If even so, I could not give
the slightest care for mortal law,
of war I breathe, and death I live,
of hate I love, and I its flaw.
Before you embark on a war today,
you must be wary of its alluring spoils,
like hopeless men that stand in wait,
and helpless women with tempting gates,
while your enemies with their unsheathed weapons
march towards you as if in a trance,
for I know it must please you to feel but heathen
and but lose yourself in the devils dance.
The smell of moist flesh in the rot,
the taste of blood now on your mind
the sound of ending progeny in the hot
flash of rage and the raging binds,
tumult of blood lust, and vengeance true
but remember war has the darkest hue,
there is no grey, but only black and white,
and regardless of what you think is right,
those that kill one are but savage,
and those that slay thousands are the generals,
but who do you fight for, murder and ravage,
a war that is yours as much as the gull’s,
that pick the skin clean of the dead,
and wash their wings in the sea of red.
Is not this burden but yours to carry?
and those you follow but careless very,
order you to stand your ground,
before the horns, and before the sound.
The trumpet blows for you my soldier
the bell it tolls for thee not them,
the mother that attends the funeral march
is not of theirs, but yours my friend.
True your enemies are just as blind,
true they are enemies nonetheless,
but foolish before and behind the line,
both as foolish, you must confess.
Remember the day you left your love,
in tears with no promise of coming back,
you picked your helmet, wore your gloves,
the burden you bore, you thought would crack
the backs of thousand horses and more,
the protection of your sacred land,
heavy it was the burden you bore,
until you saw what war was and
until you killed those sons of whores
and earned a medal for every stain,
so you felt no guilt and raped their women
shot their children in all disdain,
spurned their legacy and left to weep
the unfortunate mothers who gave them life.
Another day in the land of ruin,
you squeezed the life from another dog,
and searched his corpse for some more wealth,
but found on him just a writers log,
and in it written some words obscure,
addressed to his wife and mother poor,
“I fight for a better tomorrow,
and peace is a fleeting dream
but from the ashes we shall borrow
the heat to mend our broken seams”.
You dug him a grave, and buried him there
in a place so far from home
only yesterday he stood with his army here
and today rests here all alone.
The worst part is you did not know,
who he was or what he believed in,
but you both fought for some one else,
and there in lies your greatest sin.
Beware my heroes, the folly of war
the words of leaders and all their lies
they make you fight and watch it over
until all sense and morality dies.
No matter where, no matter how, no matter when, no matter what,
I do to find my way to you, my war shall find its way to me.
As long as I can find a way, search I shall forever but,
the day this war shall embrace me, consume me, extinguish me.
For now I watch a grieving candle, its tears of wax while turning stiff,
and the abject silence long but over, helps me wonder, what if, what if,
I had you resting by my side, would I feign a care to give?
would the war mean something then, would I deign a vigil to live?
Outside my window, an empire dark, and in its throne some flames light,
of all these lamps that welcome gaze, one must call me to your door.
Perhaps you must be sound asleep, or akin to me witnessing the sight,
a pool of blood mocking in the streets, under the lamps it has no shore.
Remember how we used to say, “the war can never haunt our dreams,
far it is from our haven here, where the only red is that of orchids.”?
How far from worry we were then, unreal at best it does now seem,
that Edens past how quickly deigns to turn its back to sights so horrid.
In the garden of delights forgotten long, blood is feeding every tree,
the war is calling out my name, still wanting me, and needing me.
I fear I must state something true, but something that does not make sense,
that is that if I truly knew, that you were mine and nothing less,
or if I knew this for a fact, that you could never love me, thence
this war would have surely ended my life, and my soul I must confess.
That is why in dying days, among the curtains burning down,
amidst the ruins of my years, betwixt the crumbling ashen walls,
I bleed when hurt, fall when wounded, weep while wearing a gilded crown,
and frozen is sardonic dear, bedridden child our name it calls.
A cradle held our love departed, bundled flesh of muted violence,
angel was thy race my child, thou wert whom we prayed well for,
and its mother, my one true love, practiced hatred, embraced silence,
you are whom I search this day, the memory of our child, our war.
When I bleed, they only wish to see a drop of red,
not to hear my screams, not to bury the thousands dead.
When I suffer, they only wish to take my home it seems,
but they take away my hope, my spirits, my dreams.
When they kill my innocent children, our sons and daughters,
and their unknowing blood turns red the flowing waters,
they expect us only to whince, mourn and then turn away
but feel the scales of justice, unto us they finally sway.
The day of reckoning is far away, but coming nonetheless,
the bell that tolls we may not hear, but it tolls somewhere incess’
Tie these hands, you must fear them surely,
burn this skin, you must hate it sorely,
Am I not human, just as you, persecuted though, but just the same?
demons in hell have suffered less, and faced not the dreaded shame,
every day a hopeful reprise, the hope to leave this awful place,
where the dead must mourn the living left, where soil and flesh embrace.
I am the child of Sarajevo, have you seen my rose?
carved in concrete memoirs, does it not impose?
a question as to how so many died, but no one heard a sound,
for the dead know only how to sleep, in graveyards unbound.
I am a mother Palestinian, have you seen my baby?
I lost it today, or yesterday, is it alive still? maybe….
gaza is a wall of martyrs, perhaps he is another brick,
and how each day they raise it further, it only makes me sick.
I am the corpse of Sudan, where is my sweet Babylon?
has it drowned in the tears of centuries, or vanished in the wait of dawn?
where is my fellow man, where is the angel of death?
enough of this living and dying, enough of these wasted breaths!
Poems & People 