The Brits and Yanks assaulted the mountains vast, Slaughtering Terror in each and every blast -- Against the heavy solid doors he huddled, Imperfect shelter from the biting wind. He looked at me with vacant eyes and muddled Façade, and passed a fleeting, cynic's grin. I opened Your abode to let him enter, A holy hav'n for th' world's tormentor. O God, What am I to do with Osama? O Would I break Your sanctuary, O Amma! Does he dream of bugs and mushrooms, Heralding a desert order Of scoured lands and crushed blooms, Purified, allowing no quarter? Now You send him here into Your arms. And I, You incarnate, must face Your Love, Unlike him of below, to be above And follow costly Love no matter th' alarms. Society is banging at Your doors -- It knows its foe, gestated in its heart, Is safely inside; now purifying wars It thinks will an order safe and free impart -- "But there's no way to peace, for peace is the way." In the desert dry will bloom Your salaam And it will ne'er to them occur to bomb. So I ope the doors of Love to play and pray: And here in holy fear we shall stand steadfast -- he and I -- he the snake, I the iconoclast. The Yanks and Brits assaulted the mountains far, In each and every death joined Terror on par.
©2002, John A. Mills, Newfound Lake
Published in Up The Wall