Here at the end of desert
there is nothing but the sand
clearing its throat
of the air in the city.
A fan tail of dust
becomes the next storm
of wounds named by their depth.
His childhood pillow
a dented can empty of food
he never ate in his threads,
so few they cannot be called clothing,
growing from the peace of his mother
and the drowned man he knew
to be his sweat-drenched father,
unable to lift him after a day
of cement sacks or mud blocks
from wherever a dinar would descend
from the garden of heaven
Allah promises for the righteous
Then Allah's righteous
came to this outside world
as they trail
the dust-turned bones
of martyrs
This is the day the liars
will profit from their lies.
This is Moustapha
grown to man
who prays for the world of peace
many times each day,
so that He will rule the world
and call Moustapha His true son.
So judgment rolls across the sand
sad in its history
looking for unbelievers
where Moustapha sleeps,
for sleep is a sign of power.
Here is Moustapha's bed
as a drain turns the desert red
for next to it
is Moustapha's head.
Barry G. Wick 2015
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