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.