In Karbala
The doves fly
Above the minarets of eternity
Higher and higher
Until they rest
On the palms of Christ
In Karbala
The hands of time
Move backwards, every year
So that the hands of Abbas
Can reach the Euphrates
Once again
In Karbala
A young woman stares
At a portrait of a green-clad man
"They say I have fallen in love," she says
"But your love is an ascension
And I have only reached
The moon of your love"
In Karbala
The stranger sleeps
On a bed of his tears
Not longing for a home
Or a homeland
In Karbala
Metaphors rise
From the torn pages of time
To walk on the Mesopotamian roads
Barefoot
In Karbala
A mother sits
By a garden of bleeding jasmines
"My son is not dead," she says
"He will return with the caravan of Hussein
This Muharram"
In Karbala
The voice of Dignity, Courage, and Strength
Echoes across the land
From a woman
Named Zainab
In Karbala
The poet drops her pen
And crumples the pages of her eulogies
Because here,
Poetry is not poetry
And prose is not prose
In Karbala
Language returns to its soul
In Karbala
Poetry is the resonating heart
Of an exile
At the doorsteps of her home
-- AK
