Storm and dust - raging throughout
the empty canvas of my heart
Roaring by my bullit aches...
In the feet of the dead Pharaoh
My worship and my flowers converse
By the ethos of the totemic mongrels
And the deserted prosceniums...
Bitter moon... waning orthodoxy of the words
Saladin's sword glinting in the naked sun
of the hatred that had burnt eversince....
Blatantly, loveless,... shaken like a charred
reverie from the morbid pages of history
As Hynkel the barber stands tall, with
Sisyphus and Harun-al-Rashid joining
No point staying put now
For the platoons have fallen
And all poems are banished from the
kingdom of the prophets....
Let's just keep the fire burning,
(without giving a shit 'bout whether we
started it or not)
for our memories and our children
to feel the warmth...