for Ashraf Fayadh


but what of god?
the magi and the zealots pause
shocked to hear that word
those three letters
which when reversed makes curs of both

and both swell their breast
for there is no answer
neither through the magic of the vessel
or the certain rejection of the air

but god is not the subject here


how quiet the space of the cell
walled in by the cries of others

and how solid these walls
built with bricks of pride

did you really think yourself free
to declare words are great

and douse them in the petrol of tears


but what of the revelation
that drove you to recite
without he prompt of angels
pressing down on your windpipe


but what of the hypocrisy of god?

that on the one hand weeps for a forlorn poet
and on the other imprisons them into the mass

that speaks through click-bait

that openly lies for supposedly the best of reasons
and then condemns for the basest of motives


you speak of bread
but perhaps not the cheap white wine
clutched stems held in manicured fingers

the chatter rising as you draw near

your words forgotten
more sooner than you can bare


but you are already dead

and though some may flinch in compassion
at each lash

will you dare again speak truth?


and where is god?

I can see him

in the anger and the baseness of your image
and the rising and the cadence of your words
in the passion of your sentence

but he will not be there in the full stop of you


did you not know?

where is god?

◄ the histories - after herodotus

opening night ►


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