Soul of my nation, fragile as summer day is long April horses drag cannons to pieces in desert scorn Womb of song, toil, tilled to perfection, cranial masquerade Bloody tents, raped prayers, our books torn in limb and page
Scream an unvoiced anger, in a treeless forest, where one hand slaps Ringing rage through kingdoms lost in coins of the peering realm Massacre the helpless children covered in their mother’s urine stains Crosses across their chests beaten by scimitars in phallic contraband
Absent identity, barbarians pound their chests borrowing, looting graves French culture one day, German the next, hunters from Far East in their veins Miracle of pretense, wild as boars in heat, descend upon innocent pastures Emerge as vainqueurs, holding hostage marinated history strands in caves
While legs curl to weep, choke, chained. While they leave a dirge undrained Reconstitute a future rich in uncertainty, rich in praise for the blessings gained Songs made purer, poems sadder than a bird leaving its final nesting place Howling nights rough throat moans embrace the darkest threats
But we are still here, and here we shall pile our odds to heaven stretched. Rejuvenated shores less morbid and Turkic in death’s tenor Less faith frothing absolute terror, with seduction options assimilationist Kemalists, Young Turks, criminals from Macedonia not withstanding
A hundred and three reprieves, pending arguments, strengthening brows Violinists to wits, bankers and deal makers united in sheer mad feasts.
Chicago, Illinois April 11, 2017