The desert in its parsimonious way
divides the dismal rocks by sandy seas:
the miserly sirocco drinks the dew
and locks each drop away from thirsty lips.
Bearded faces, like old myrrh wood resist,
patiently, abrasions of sand and time,
measured by crescent moon and pendant star,
wheeling above the plodding caravan.
Howling in caves, wind and man find their joy,
carving infinite forms in sand and clay.
Sun and moon no longer shall be worshipped,
replaced by spirit’s vast and empty cave.
The Prophet raves of salvation’s gardens,
filled with tinkling water and women’s sighs,
where men may pick fruit and caress houris
without fear of retribution or death.
This grand mirage, beyond the shimmering
horizon, promises the weary soul
eternal life in pleasurable bliss,
or burning Hell for disobedience.
So mused the trader in his lonely den,
bemused by voices roaring in his head,
scrying a bloody future for mankind
within the stony crystals of his mind.
Submission to the greatness of The One
was the only way to freedom and life
for wayward men, women, children and slaves,
all bound by devotion to His new god.
To convince the faithful, there must be Hell
and dreadful torments to persuade them all
to dwell in righteousness until that time
when angels would cast down the evil ones,
and place his followers in the gardens.
So dreamed the lonely scorpion, in his cave
or lying prone beneath the vault of stars,
until maddened to sting the world awake.
Limitless, the desert sands lay waiting
to receive the bloody spate of prophets.
Eyes widened by the poison from within,
the deluded djinn stared into the sun.
Blinded, he thought he was the chosen one,
but returned to darkness from whence he came.
