A Fortunate Man

My son is dying, dark eyes fever-flared,
He bravely smiles as we await his fate.
72 virginal houri abide
Visage veiled but vaginas revealed
Or 28 pre-pubescent puerile pearls
If such preferred, as promised by Hadith.
The vest bears down its weight and cumbrous heft
On fading heart of this my blessed scion
Compressing tread-marks of his final steps
On venerated path through ancient dust.
I watch now from this place to the bazaar
Where wretches beg and fallen angels profit.
Honour will be paid to me for loss;
Tribute will be brought and I will feast;
His act speeds my path when my time comes.
A muffled
Holy
rumbling roar of rage.
Still-twitching parts from those of lesser worth
Fragment and reek of vile impurity.
Clouded in blood-mist their blackened meat
Stains every desert star to crescent moon.
Lacerated limbs lance wall and roof
Mangling men reviled like scorpions loathed;
Unearthed rats bleed blinded by the flames
From Paradise, as porcine stench befouls
The gentle desert khamseen’s blessed breeze
Bearing joy to this most fortunate of men.

Thanks to Scriptor Obscura for recommending this reflective accompaniment, ‘Mazaar”. Sung here by Niyaz this old Afghani folksong is sung in Dari, a Persian dialect. The song includes a plea for all human beings to end suffering.