The Plains Revisited

May Allah be pleased with what I write today,
be called the sharpest swords of heaven
and inkpots drained into the river nigh
that pours with blood and the fearless cry
of Hossein who lay in a dirt bound grave
it is time to rise and claim the right
from those filled with rage and blight.
Among the stars that light the night
are pure spirits whose gift was death
and lost the battle for those to come
and those that follow the misery home.
The nation that lost its place
by stealing land for its own race
no appeal is granted to the chosen
their burnt star is bitter and frozen.
Their hands clench tightly to the skin
of babies and women, feeble old men
that choke to death on thirst and hunger
and steadfast with nothing but faith to plunder.
In heaven Zuljanah awaits his rider
pulled up from the ground with grass and thunder,
the horse is yet upon his knees
though older than the cedar trees
patient and well fed on paradise plums,
full of euchalyptus, his scent is pure
as it wafts from under his blood soaked saddle.
A place awaits his tender hooves
that stomp the groves and burns the eyes
because it is watered with ancient lies
fermented blood of dogs and spies,
tended by hands that will burn in hell
for what they did and did not tell.
Long dry plains did swallow
the secrets of jinn and men
a history kept neatly and told again
when holy war is said to be
the cause of all our misery.
Who then can complain
about the stories that were not printed
all human wisdom spurned and stinted
because the material world agrees
with the desires of kings on killing sprees.
No one hopes to take the blame
or worry their friend with talk of shame,
too much is on the line
when help is provided in oysters and wine.
Yet on his knees awaits
the horse who guards paradise
his rider ready to open the gaits
and loose poor Zulfigar from its sheath
upon the world as it must be
because it was written, a life must be free
to call upon the helpers of heaven
who recognize the disaster that started
before one book was revealed,
the Red Sea parted.
Alas the steel is forged in time
has been oiled with the blood of slime,
the memory of old scars sublime,
thousands of wounds to a sacred soldier
who upon his death leaned near the ear
of a horse whose price was completely clear,
asked his mount to gently lower
so his body might fall a bit slower
upon the ground where it now lay
to wait for the worst to come.
Into his robes that became his shroud
no mourning was ever that loud
when Hossein fell into the ground.
One son was slaughtered as he bade
farewell, an arrow caught within his neck
and for that whole crime a nation weeps
for ages, their hope is blind
except to the courageous
who know success is ready to mount
Zuljanah the most elderly of steed
whose feet approach the light of speed.
The hands and swords of the evil kin
still thrusting into the sallow skin
of the hunger stricken and believing men
will be cut like threads
as butter is sliced with the dullest knife
it won't take but a pin or a needle
to help the Creator even a little,
a word or a penny, a drop of ink is plenty.