Karbala’s poets
Karbala’s poets
A poet must love wildly
or use the broken pieces of his heart
as a sharpened quill
for ink to spill beautifully into words
that his tongue cannot untwist
unless he has the gift of Karbala
ready to be repotted into new vessels
ready to be rewritten as fresh wounds
for this is the season of sowing seeds
planting metaphors and similes
until the clash of swords becomes ink
slaughtering the innocence
of the paper
until there is no room left
until the pots run dry and the poet
must send his dying pen to the
flowing river of his tear ducts
for one last verse, only to come back
empty, the pen drops and so does the flag
and this is where the poet gives in
for the next line is where Hussain
refills eternity with his own kin
and this part cannot be rewritten
for no heart can shoulder the burden
of lifting your own child
like a perfect rhyme
only to have his throat pierced
mid lullaby
Now the poet looks to his hands
stained with ink
and promises to rewrite the same story
all over again.
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