Poezja

In damp
cellars of
Baba Amr,
women and
children
huddle,
waiting
for the
Arab Spring
to arrive.

They are
arrested
emigrants
on the road
to freedom,
now hostages
to tyranny
seeking asylum
from a season
of discontent
lashing another
poor generation
cowering
deep within
the bowels of
a crumbling
city.

The hajis share
the solace of
desperation,
pressing
this wretched
commune to haunt
dark catacombs
where collective
hope takes refuge
only to discover their
dream of freedom
lying in state
waiting for
a struck match
to consume
the decrepit
effigy in a
final funeral pyre.

The chill of winter
moves through
these poor
pilgrims like a
messenger
of death.

An indifferent
world has allowed
the scrapes of
the besieged
to fester;
growing
into mortal
wounds.

The grim reaper
chuckles from
a dark corner
in these
underground
rooms.

He deeply
inhales the
exhilarating
stench of death
creeping in from
the street,
musing about its
complementary
qualities to
the soiled rags
robing colic
infants.

Allah’s beloved
are famished
from the feast
of acrimony
playing out
on the streets
above them.

The hunger
for peace
dances on
their tongues
like the taste
of a mocking
Hors d'oeuvre
for a starving man.

The wages
of dissent,
protests, the
armed resistance
of revolutionaries
have led them
to the shelter
of this profane
place.

Outside this
god forsaken
bivouac, the
sounds of
cold blades
threshing
insurgents
have entered
the city,
moving with the
facility of a
frigid wind.

The terrible
sword of
a Baathist’s
revenge
eagerly slits
the voices
of dissent;
silencing
the last
songs
of an
Arab Spring,
once joyfully
risen from
the streets
in a chorus of
militant
insistence,
replaced
by mournful
dirges of
horrific
lament.

The
realization
that the
promise of
an Arab Spring
will never arrive
for some
strikes
winter in
the heart
of all.

Have our songs
of liberation
been nothing more
then the baying
of a starving
dog begging
for meat
from a
terrible
master?

The dialog
of gun battles
on the street
above have
abated.

The soliloquy
of grenade
launchers
have been
silenced.

Partisans
defending the
city have left the
streets.

The taste of
recrimination
will be the
prize for
those still
remaining.

The sound
of insurgents
fleeing
boots
gives way
to the pinch
of hissing
bayonets
deflating
the lungs
of prostrate
children
kissing the
dust of
the streets
that will
entomb them.

Abandoned
fighters
too wounded
to retreat
face skyward
to glimpse a
last mortal
vision of
heaven
from their
beloved
city;
gargling
final
prayers
from the
bubbling
blood
of their slit
throats.

It is time
for the
hoveled
pilgrims
to leave
the dank
basements
of Homs.

Care
must be
taken as
we
travel
the midnight
roads,
avoiding
checkpoints;
ducking into
dark doorways
to evade being
caught in the
headlights
of passing cars.

We must
remain
invisible.

We must
be one with
the black
midnight
that swaddles
us in darkness.

We will
follow
the trail
well marked
with the tears
of Hama’s
survivors.

We hear
the whispers
of unresolved
vendettas
leading
to unrequited
sanctuaries
of revenge.

The last
to exit Homs
will follow our
trail of tears as
we trudge
toward Mecca
in search of our
Arab Spring.

We pray
that Allah
will rendezvous
with his tired
wanderers
there.

Music Selection:

Bob Marley, Exodus

Oakland
3/6/12
jbm