When the sun went down on the burning land
Where could we hide?
When the moon drew about her her skirts
Of the treacherous night tide
As the sands smouldered with
The victims of a self-inflicted genocide
As the dreams of self determination
Drowned silent under aghast skies
And the rich raised a fluted brimful of
Medical spirit hoarded in the cellar.
The race for salvation
Malthus holding a needle and cotton
As the cruises turn away the lifeboats
And jeer at the desperate flares
And each one to seize the line
was given a tattoo with a number
Groveled before the mute idol
Atop his throne of skulls
And nobody spoke of the drowned
Nobody spoke of the drowned.
When the sun came up we watered our fields
Returned to Egypt singing praise for Yahweh
Nobody in their drunkenness dared think
The sun would not go down again
An invocation before the day's work
A flex banner for the departed
A wary skepticism of the magicians
Who cast snakes in the court of the Pharoah
A glimmer in the eyes of the Israelites
Awaiting the return of Moses in a khadi cap.
Per-aa the arrogant, thinking himself God
Building flak towers to shoot down Allah
Putting to sword the blessed sons of Israel
Where was he when the darkness came?
What happened to Nimrod when
The little creature went up his nose?
Where is Qaroon now, with all his gold
How long will it be till he is swallowed whole?
How many Egyptians in the heat of ignorance
Shall follow Firawn into the riverbed?
Let the Lord send his angels in formations battle-ready
To strike terror in the hearts of the cynical mufsideen
Let the skies above them open and the ground beneath them flood
Let the ghosts of the Ad and Thamud wail in their Left ear
Let the Qunoot E Naazilah ring in their Right ear
Let the wings of Jibreel strike the besiegers blind
Let Hell call hungry to their blackened souls
Like a pining bride to her husband far away in battle
On a Day of Vengeance and Mercy, of Salvation and Damnation
When the idol is taken to the river and drowned.
I wrote this in late July, just after the worst of the Second Wave of COVID, which took millions of lives. There was cautious hope in the air, but also anger and helplessness. And grief - everyone had lost someone they knew, as the system failed everyone, rich and poor, and people scrambled for vaccines, medicines and basic healthcare.
This is not an anti-vaxx poem in the slightest; this is an anti-vaccine-imperialism poem, written after watching some Americans get their shots in bars and stores and others make a big fuss about the vaccines their privilege had bought them while people in India were left grasping at straws. Nor is it a very religious poem to be honest, despite the imagery; some humans take themselves to be gods and in God's name do the most ungodly things to common folk.
I was sitting in a restaurant listening to "Dustland", "My Own Soul's Warning" and "Jungleland" by Bruce Springsteen and The Killers in various combinations and permutations. It felt odd, watching a city come back to life while also suffering part of the collective trauma we all experienced in those two months. RIP to all those who fell, may your deaths not be in vain.
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