Tuesday, 22 March 2011

Zainab Calling

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.


Ali Naqvi

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