26/01/2016

#poem #poetry #amwriting the muslim's tale iii

tangential to the noted path of venus' plane
descend we must sage scented mists
to the warmer lands of floods and rains
where by turning of the wheel all men live

here the tiger spikes it's claws to flints
against the reigning tree of shade
and the laden donkey mocks
the boasts to hard-loins some men make

and here is poor ali - a woeful man
made cobbled life now tongue bereft
and heedless he to the songs of birds
footpad caught - sword made deaf

oh there is poor ali - all in rags
a bowl before and crutch beside
waiting by the caravan trail
for crumbs of bread from passers-by

but they do not see the hunting hawks
scouting out the jewels and gold
travelers don't look up for death
but scour the djinn-eyed gully folds

nor will they feel the savage blow
as predators pour down weighty stones
but for a while beneath their ribs
they will taste the dagger honed

none shall need their earthly riches
on the road to paradise or hell
at the tiny cost of trapping mice
ali's treasure-house did swell