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Wednesday, August 01, 2018

Mosul


It will rain 

torrents 

as the blood finds its way

over the Mosul dam.


But no mercy can erase 

the daze of death

in children’s eyes...


And no sanity cease 

the glazed gaze of the crying elderly. 


The science of breaking a people

is teaching their young

the art of slaughter.


Ripping up a nation 

comes with 

tucking fright into bedtime rituals.


It arrives with burning

centuries of memorized lyrics and feeding the ashes 

to famished minds.


Rain cannot not wash away 

the footprints of panic now engraved in rotting ground.


This fury of breath breeds stifled survival that all of God’s rains cannot revive...


Fear is ‘the thing with feathers’ that pecks at the heart of normalcy. 


“Let’s all roll out the beds in the heart of the room (for the groom)...the (envious) enemy has died and his colors have paled...” 


But they burned the beds and they burned the grooms...


And lastly they set fire to all the remaining songs....


And no Mosul Monsoon could ever extinguish the lingering rage...