Tuesday, October 4, 2016

Mask Of Faith

Mask Of Faith
© Surazeus
2016 10 04

Where can I run to hide from falling bombs
that blast small garden of fruit trees and herbs,
my grandmothers tended two hundred years,
and burn their dreams to heaps of swirling ash?

Alone among black skeletons of trees
I kneel in dust before the blackened corpse
that housed sweet spirit of my mother, eyes
staring blank at me, and forget her name.

I cup my trembling hands to catch cool rain
that cleanses soot and blood off my dry skin,
then drink bright tears from heaven to refresh
my broken heart that soaks up all my tears.

I carry memory of her smiling face
in my pocket as I join bomb-dazed crowd
of terrified people, who stare in shock
at bright indifferent sun, walking nowhere.

We walk forever toward the silent sky,
sharing no songs of salvation or hope,
for we leave our names behind on dry road
that covers dismayed footsteps in white dust.

I cup my hands and lift them high toward sky,
whispering prayers for Allah to send me rain,
and hot wind from treeless hills blast my face
that veils my tortured soul with mask of faith.

No warrior, riding white stallion of justice,
appears in blaze of light from cloudless sky
to zap destructive bombs with lightning strikes,
though I pray for Allah to send us help.

I cannot camouflage my broken heart
with angel wings torn from my back at birth,
since now I trudge in penumbra of horror,
surviving on breath of infinite hope.

I stood on peak of the mountain of truth
when mother took me inside garden walls
and taught me how to chant expedient spells
but I fall backward in river of trust.

Should I carry broken skull of my mother
and walk ten thousand miles to paradise
where children play all day on river shore
and ask for rain to fill my brain with light?

Now that everyone in my land is dead,
blasted to nothing by imperial bombs
of greed, I must be empress of lush hills,
royal queen in gardens of fantasy.

I long to play free and safe without fear
of death in empyreal garden of fruit
as I sit on stone by dry river bed
while starving refugees eat rodent stew.

Powerful men who declare themselves gods
repose secure in polished castle halls
but I am queen of the dunes and the dead,
reigning supreme over waste land of faith.

What force of love will polarize my mind
broken into puzzle pieces of facts
I can use to build new wall that surrounds
paradise lost and found in brutal war?

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