Those five timed salutes,
Up and down submission
That meter your life
That you say all is based on
Came to you epigentically,
Of a Woman’s loss and pain
Of a caravan burnt and robbed
Of ravaging and chains
Now, you stride the world,
Muscles, beard, gun and glory
Raising your hands in praise
Of the words you though you knew
Waving honour around
Telling us what a woman’s place is.
And in the Ten Nights we remember that:
In those dark days, in Syrian prisons
In the markets of Kufa,
When the whips worked,
When there was no Hijab from the sun
They preserved The Word
Under each strand of tattered hair
These lessons are never lost,
If forgotten.
By
Ali Naqvi
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