“Look to! Treble’s going…she’s gone.”

I’d cry the time-honoured words when I was young,

my voice a boyish chirrup. Everyone

around me on the belfry floor where hung

the bell-ropes were grown-ups, so it was grand

to lead-off when the peal of church bells swung

to clattering action with the six-strong band

following after, letting fly our ropes,

those woolly sallies...

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Saudi courts, your rule of fear is finished
- the sentence on this poet negates your faith.
Your hollow incantation "God Is Great"
is plainly false if God can be diminished
by lines of verse. Should murder be admonished
to Ashraf Fayadh, forevermore his fate
will hold as evidence that you're afraid 
of poetry. Frankly I'm astonished:

astonished that a land so steeped in culture,
in li...

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