Ghazwah

The sand shifted silently
Like an amused spectator, curious.
Both sides had fallen into quiet observation.
My companion and I witnessed
From our vantage point atop a rock
The traditional advance of a trio, and its match.
The blows are symbolic, portending something.
Something.

The fallen are carried back to their mourning kin.

The next moments are cold and long,
Pregnant with a charge so strong.
I see a youth and his friend
Toss their meal to just belong,
And join in earnest to defend
The Truth, as they did comprehend.

One thousand, armed and confident,
Facing a third, weary, spent.
The battle lines are straight and taut.
The bow of faith and the bow of naught,
Strung and drawn by the sage fingers
Of generals once bound in clanship,
Now split by the sting of truth’s whip.

A soldier strutted and spanned the ranks,
Flashing his blade in haughty stride,
Raising resolve on the one side,
Causing the other’s eyes go wide.

The cavalry is on a canter,
Chilling battle cries ensue.
My friend and I are cold with awe
As blade and armor clang a charge,
The likes of which I never knew.

The walls of men are closing in,
Spawning swirls of sand, the din
Is deafening, its source unclear;
For to the scene, we are not near.

Then did our wrinkled brows unfold
As phantom armies now showed bold.
The sand around the charging groups
Spiralled to enormous hoops
Of presences.

Yes, presences. Their nature eludes me;
Horsemen gliding on an iron cloud, led by
One, a sun for his turban high.
I hold my breath as my ears are filled
With this clamor. And my peeled eyes
Are flooded by the scene thus willed.
And I know I live though my heart denies
It; my companion by all this killed.

Post Categories: Poetry
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