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

three volleys rend the air - without effect
the deamon struts in prouder mood
his martial demonstration proved
a single arrows hangs from of it's neck

and again the world falls silent - still -
to be broken by the clattering of arrows
dropped from the mouthes of gleeful snakes
taken on the wing as a lover plucks a rose

in disdain it takes a half-dead child
and snacks upon the head and breast
seasoned by the rattled gasps
with profundo belch the beast digests

out rolls a sigh into laugh into a sneer
into a screech into a scream
into a feral curse - spooking all the horses
beyond bit whip or spur - they flee in fear

to the background of alurams and cries
only ali remains to face the foe
unarmed - but for his trusty knife -
ali stands in faith as the shadow grows

and grows - and darkens on approach
eclipsing slow the waning sun
drawing all to it's dark bronze eyes
that whisper to the soul calumnious lies

stout and bold within death's ring
ali signals do not fight nor swing
to those who fled but now return
the written fate is his alone