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…
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Fugitive Fragments 
I liked the rawness of this post, very concise and allusive to the disease’s effects…
It made me think of Edgar Allan Poe’s “Mask of the Red Death”.
And , by the way, I have found these verses truly remarkable, Mike:
“Clouded in blood-mist their blackened meat
Stains every desert star to crescent moon”.\
Best wishes to you, Aquileana 🙂
Analytical as ever and displaying your hallmark percipience Aquileana – much thanks.
There is just no way that I could ever bring myself to sacrifice my son like this.
It does indeed seem impossible but when a man believes he acts on the authority of a God, reason is abandoned. I appreciate your reading and joining in[- thank you.
hard to imagine someone sacrificing the present life for an imaginary after-life. well written
Yes, dogma can limit one’s vision and lead to an inflated (not-a-pun) sense of personal importance and destiny. Thank you good friend for taking the time to cogitate.
This is a powerful piece of work, Mike – like Rowan says, the language is striking. I saw the original too, which I missed last year.
I believe we were talking of St Patrick’s Day recently… I remembered…
This is a short message Polly because I am conserving my energy for tomorrow when I will be expected to be fit enough to consume quantities of stout against my better judgement. Happy St. Patrick’s Day to you Polly.
Taking on the mind of the suicide bombers father was quite a formidable challenge, but you kept it sober minded. It’s hard to believe a father could watch his son walk into a bazaar and detonate himself mangling the flesh of others in a sort of holy vengeance, but those holy words and divine rewards do intoxicate the mind. Well written – even the gruesome ending.
Thanks for this ruminative response Robert – greatly appreciated.
Good to read this one again Mike. Such striking language and such strange rewards for familial loss.
This becomes the second time that I have the pleasure of acknowledging your insight into this piece so my thanks to you are doubled RT.