Old man beard, the occupation of your heart is strung Syrian bow-like
in struggle, dictator truce copulative war machine hungry arrows
moving between borders. Behind us, pillars of wisdom crumble
where once they grew from dirt hollowed holes – we talked of love
like Kahil Gibran, Omar Khayyam or my friend’s fave Rumi
holes like string vest spaces, net torn knife twists in the war for water.
Irrigated Eden, Euphrates and Tigris, the newly reservoired borders:
Close up their dams, flood enemy towns,
See beard? Your unshaven stubble grown like forked tongue slitherings,
split ends from each pore gathering like dunes. The street once bustling,
now empty of hidden women, buskers, acrobats, kite fighters,
all wandered off, some dodging fox hole craters, some barrel bomb meteorites,
some unanswered prayers. An empty bazaar littered with hot bullet casings,
the moving finger hisses, scorched, and having hissed moves on.