Tamaghis ba’dan yaswadda waghdas nawfana ghadis
He’s coughing up shrapnel, jagged and rough,
wondering if this is what the incantation brings,
those dreamwords shaping desire into being.
He’s questioning why blood is needed, and so much,
why he’s wheeled through his hometown streets
on a gurney draped in camouflaged sheets.
Ibn Khaldun takes each piece of metal from him:
These are to be made into daggers,
precious gifts, the souvenirs of death.
You carry the pearls of war within you, bombs
swallowed whole and saved for later.
Give them to your children. Give them to your love.
He’s coughing up shrapnel, jagged and rough,
wondering if this is what the incantation brings,
those dreamwords shaping desire into being.
He’s questioning why blood is needed, and so much,
why he’s wheeled through his hometown streets
on a gurney draped in camouflaged sheets.
Ibn Khaldun takes each piece of metal from him:
These are to be made into daggers,
precious gifts, the souvenirs of death.
You carry the pearls of war within you, bombs
swallowed whole and saved for later.
Give them to your children. Give them to your love.
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