Upon Ali’s pillow drew odes from farmers of the Oikumene,
they whose dirges lamented silence.
Curious hands dug and sought the seeds of heaven,
they whose omens split open silence.
Jesus summons Joseph through colour of time,
to coat Potiphar‘s rhyme,
draw God‘s dream to deign
and thread open silence.
His majesty, the Mehdi slumped, bored with waiting.
“My progeny!” Quipped Ibn Abbas, “who will herald open heaven’s silence?”
The whirling dervish, that punch-drunk lover,
tale spinner, under wool cover.
Shari’a she does not,
the Prophet’s prayerful plot,
capriciously interpret open silence.
Today there is Islam’s infidel,
they who say he’s jihad’s occupation,
and Leila’s infidelity.
She whose intifada espouses no open lovers,
and He who built Majnun‘s settlements,
though ilk of monoclonal caste,
a time to break the silence.