Where violins welcome you home

Self destruct someday

Ashes scattered over all our remains

You will not find me then

Were you to return, you will not find me

My brother says it gets better

If we’re responsible for another

I told him I was responsible everyday

Responsible for you

You see there are places on this planet

Where the blood seeps through the cracks

Of the ghosts of long past

There are monarchs on their thrones

And warriors without homes

And you’re either one of the two

Or you are just not

I suppose I am not

There’s a temple in japan

Where the blossoms wither and bloom

And a wishing well

And a little girl

And watering streams

And death’s at their door

There’s a bloody trench

Somewhere in Germany

With drying leaves strewn about

In patterns of terrible stories

There’s a man in india

With a rose water grave

And tilting bells into the sunset

Resounding in the fray

There’s a prince from a far off land

That lies heartbroken in his bed

His dreams trouble him

His sword unsheathed

Lies stained with blood

There’s a street in new orleans

Where the violins welcome you home

A witch playing with her dolls

and the balconies with the whores

Singing songs of those who always fall

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The Middle of a War

 

Oh my god

We’ve landed right smack

in the middle of a war

Born into it, blood and body intact

Our souls sold to its tragedy

Heavens above

Our nations have traded into this

Into this massacre of sorts

My Gracious Lord

What did we do

To be born in soil

Soiled from the blood of those coming

And those who left

Oh my God

Look what we’ve done

Chosen our paths

Picked up our weapons

There’s no running

Because

Oh my God

We’ve landed right smack

In the middle of this war

My lord

We cannot build our homes

Not without these charred bones

The trees will not grow

In dead tainted sands

Strewn right and left

With the Bodies of the unknown

My God

When we pray

Our tears will run red

And our hands will shake

Because our salvation is dead itself

Our hearts betrayed.

mustafashehzad

Throughout my time at college in the US, I thought I was taking the high road by believing people are generally well intentioned, and it would be morally inconsistent to paint the greater American canvas with the brush of a few vitriolic white people. Among my close friends, it’s no secret that I was part of the small subset of Muslims that actually pushed against the Islamophobia narrative. I actually believed Muslims peddled a victimized storyline that aimed to pin away blame from ourselves, and that Islamophobia was a just another hype narrative that made us look weaker than we actually were – divisive and detracted from genuine struggles – giving us an easy way to earn sympathy on social media.

But after seeing what’s unfolded after the last two GOP debates, and reading Vox’s recent take on Trump and Rubio, I’m starting to understand otherwise. I’m starting to understand…

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Four Thousand of a Degree

You see there has been a question burning in me and in the depths of the world. The one about the artful warriors. The one that keeps me up most nights.

There are multitude destinies within one millionth of your realities and only one fifth of them are relative and the rest are filled with hundred of your memories and perhaps ninety nine point one one four are just dreams.

And within these numbers, you’ll see the possibility of oblivion and that alone is the only thousand of the actual infinites.

So if you were to die in battle tonight, will I feel it? If you perished on the root of that frozen mountain, will I mourn you?

To be honest all these question were quite useless, almost less than a zero, perhaps below minus four thousand of a degree.

The truth is we were born to be raised like fighters and one day some dawn will bring you back. To recruit the rest of us. Or perhaps the dawn will bring you back permanently to stay.

So the lovely glass wall house by the forest edge, the pristine living room beside the kitchen counter, and the snow globes and book shelves and the lonely corners in the library would not look so desolate.

And that perhaps is just another one of a million ideas between the trillion spaces created by the absence.

The absence.

A gun. A mace. A sword. A dagger.

A gun. A mace. A sword. A dagger.

 

The weapons were lined out for us to choose.

A gun. A mace. A sword. A dagger.

We were supposed to set out to war.

Why?

Because the ones who left before us never returned.

Our hellish demons of sorts.

And we had to be wherever they were fated to be.

Why?

Because once we had a dream.

Trudging thought miles of ancient wood.

Smothered green in lichens and warm showers.

We were right behind us.

Garbed in black uniforms.

An array of weapons we did not choose hung by a belt.

A bleeding gash or two.

Pronounced limps and breathless lungs.

Walking fast in pursuit, calling after someone.

The Angel on Fire

The quest is not over for you

It never will be

Not even when you die

Your mind is on fire

Your heart is on fire

Your soul is on fire

And unless you end up in the fiery pits of hell

Your whole life will be mapped out in sequences

Of unholy fights and delights

Of blasted glories and rusted swords

Of hidden requiems and bad dreams

And your death will be ascension into combat origins

Your entire existence is an array of cogs and pieces

Of Joints and limbs

Collectively an automaton of fire

A soldier on fire

An angel on fire

It will never end.