Saturday 28 September 2013

In the Mind of a Little Brother

A rustle, a crash, a groan, a scream
Awoke me from my blissful dream
The peace shattered, I opened my eye,
"Who dareth awake me, and why?"

My sister sat there guilty-eyed
A broken vase too, I espied,
And as if to complete the tale
Her face became a ghostly pale

Her hand with broken shards was filled
The shards that the vase's corpse had spilled
Her white frock became a morbid red
From the blood that her guilty hands shed

I stared down at her quivering face,
"In fear, woman loses all her grace!"
So felt I, as I stared down
At my sister with a menacing frown

Tears down her face came streaming
Pathetic guilt in her apologies teeming,
She wrapped her bloody hands round my knee
Groveling and blubbering her desperate plea

I softened my tone, stroking her head
Sat her down on the edge of the bed
Laying to rest all her qualms,
I took her into my comforting arms.

Naive Woman! To believe that I,
Her brother, would not deign to lie,
She sighed in relief, let down her guard
And I stabbed her with a jagged shard

Her neck first I did pierce,
Stabbed at it with a passion fierce
As soon as her writhing body went slack
I went to work upon her back

A merry tune I whistled and sung
As I sliced into her now lifeless tongue
Then I carved a message on her face,
"A woman must always know her place"

Friday 13 September 2013

Dance of the Zalongos

They awoke to the sound of screams,
Despairing wails and wretched moans
Their city, once beautiful, was being reduced
To crushed pebbles and crumbling stones

The onslaught was unstoppable
The enemy numbered too great
The men fought valiant and strong
But which man can overpower fate?

The walls soon tottered and fell
Rubble and dust reigned supreme
The end of the battle drew nigh
The streets with corpses teemed

The men knew the end they faced
They’d fight on until they perished
The women too were of one mind
For above all, their pride they cherished

For it is the fate of every war
That when a victor arises
The defeated men die fighting
And the women are claimed as prizes

A hardened race these women were
Unused to a life of leisure
Their pride would not see them turned
Into a mere source of pleasure

They marched resolute, stony-faced
Straight onwards to the cliff’s edge
They marched silent, unwavering
Taking strength from their unspoken pledge

Each woman led from in front
While her children followed close behind
Till every family in the land of Zalongo
Up against the cliff’s edge was lined

Suddenly up amongst them arose
A chant of great depth and fervor
A woman grasped her child’s small hand
And the firstborn was thrown over

They pitched, they swayed,
In stormy cavalcade
And the chanting only did grow
The mother’s eyes wild
She followed her child
Into the watery depths below

The singing still grew
As each mother threw
Her child to meet its doom
With great song and laughter
She followed right after
Still humming the deathly tune

The marauders stood silent
Awestruck watched the tyrant
As six hundred took their own lives
The army was victorious
Their victory was glorious

But none remained to be claimed as their prize