Saturday, November 29, 2014

The King's Rock

Our  nethermost region.



Kay Hassan

 Stately, with all his passions  under a mighty  rock,
Likewise, oft in all his wars had shed his blood
It was the to miracle of his seven labours
That has never been sung with:
 Daf, drum, flute and dulcimer

Nevertheless, he was a man of  his trade
Had never played with  the shadows of  Word
 Rebounded   or bragged like the heights lord 
But , like the  sibling-of the mighty rock  
Stuck bravely to the heart of the faith
But, the  emperors  guards has  reached him-
 in his blood soaked sanctum
 
Riding- with long rifles and swords
"Ready ?" They shouted nearby,
And  galloped through the tearing winds,   
 Composing songs for their uncrowned King

A thousand hearts cracked, or shredded 
on the oak covered giant rocks
 the tears fell upon the nethermost garden
Where the.enchanted  souls were
floating   across the sacred  red valleys- 
 with perpetual uproar , and climbing  the rocks-  
Departing through the meandering roads to exile.  

Years, are messing  up day by night 
His shelter, lionized, like the Dome of the rock.
Exposed to dust and rain, 
 acquired the  fame in the waste,
 Like a giant brain of West    
The empire times, turmoil-ed  over years
And  awakened  him for another round.

'Alas,' we screamed, after a ninety years 
When for  the taste  of Mongols'  Paper* ,
The prides of the heights' lords scattered 
Upon the dwindling of -king's rock's-chemistry  

Chieftains sat on their eggs,*
 Loosely, dangled  their legs
From the thousand  sides of the rock,
 Smoking-in a chattering mood.
"Hey,”  unto the their clapping folks
say the chieftains of many
“May I ask the historian one question?
 How many chieftains and men of glory
have dangled their legs down- 
From the  to of the king's rock


Brothers, there is no a stranger  among us
in this  valley.
 I say 'History  is tongueless, 
but certainly,. I am not'
To all who set eyes on the treasures, and land ,
The sermon  is done 
we are done. 

The last chieftain has died in January 
Cursed  in his frosted  bed. 
His  face was frozen                                             
 like the eyes of shark
Failing  to  catch  the din of the crowd
and Vicar's sermon on the king's coffin
A voice whispered 
"Beware of the dogs' bark.
Beware of your brothers'  bark."
------------------------------------------------
*Paper: Cash; Mongols introduced the world to the Chinese Note.
* Testicle.

Monday, November 17, 2014

EVE AND ADAM


Kay Hassan


Across the quiet avenue,
 Opposite to our house,
On the  east side of the hill ,
Forever, lived Adam and Eve,
Neither were breeds of Paradise,
Nor once walked across the hell

They were so filled with  years,
That, the dreary time of  the great war
For them.
Was just a boring detour in the way
And  the  vulgar rabbit stalking day
Was the politicians U- turn in dismay

Their success was a son in reward  ,
Grew up within the national  standard,
And their  failure was a son   with seizure,
Drowned, into the Hawkesbury  river 

Eve drove her manual car
To see doctors, podiatrists 
or buy new goods from her grocer
Adams dress , was in a perfect fit
Neat and  tidy like his tools' kit. (He was a retired electrician.)
He rode on his bike, and
Toured the neighborhood,  
Or walked  miles on his feet ,
Until someday  he lost the track ,
And could nt find his way back
He  kept asking passers-by ,
 “ For Gods sake, it is too late
Where is Adams parlor, mate ?”

Eve searched  streets and shops
But was forced to call the Cops
Who found him walking on the railway
Somewhere a thousand miles away.


At his rock  bottom  and worse,
Adam lost his life's course,
And among-st  his  daily dismay
 succumbed to the mental decay,,
On other hand; they said  God forbid
For having  a very  weak  grip
Eve slipped on the stairs’ top step
And was found with a  Broken hip,
And some fracture in her rib

“Osteoporosis,
And a breast cancer survivor,
God help ye,” said her Doc.in grieve
And nodded  to her to fill
The fields of  patients relief
In response,  cynically,
She released her last jock
“God, find somewhere else
 to tie up on your rein -less horse.”


She stayed in waed, for so long
That, Adam in his new hermitage
 Melted down into a new love.
 And  was intrigued by a new Eve,

Up a little in fantasy ,
And a bit of  audacity
He introduced Eve to Emma  , 
“This is Emma…This mamma,  
Hi  Cain , Hi  Abel,”  ( Abel was his dead son)
Says Adam to please them
No Adam , this is  Aaron
Our beloved   grandson
 Abel is dead, Abel had  gone,  ”
Said Eve in a great groan.

Your grandson, not mine, mamma,
Make sure and ask my wife  Emma,”

(Eve’s son Cain  got Aaron, and Diana from his ex- wife who  kicks  Aaron out and keeps Diana with her. Diana  is seventeen, and Aaron is sixteen  .. Cains  second wife refuses to let Aaron in with her children, because Aaron got seizure. Cain brings Aaron to live with his mother Eve. I say “Eve.  Most often, I see Aaron play around.  She  laughs and says. ‘His mother is a whore.'  
I say. ‘Whore is not a swear word , ma’am.”
She says. “I won’t swear, man.”

 Eve  trades  her manual car with a  brand new one. We  have to keep eyes  on her. She will drive to the shops and see her doctor and take Aaron to school, however, she tell her nurse. 'I am not anyones concern, anymore.')

(“Hey, it is too early, Eve,”  I say .
“You think you are a wise man, ain't you?” says she
“No you have taught me how to screw the wisdom.” 
“So you want to learn how to die, don’t you?”
“Right.” I say. “I won’t play with words.”
“Then watch me, moron, You don't need words, ” says she.)

Today when Eve came home.
She nodded to Liz’s dog Tom,
Smiled she and burst into tears
To show the dog and me
How the bittersweet of years
Makes out of us frames of toys,
She, yelled and sighed,  
And cursed  her doctors
To teach the dog and me
The rage, when the body
 Out of order and  joy
“Ay. It is a big blow, boys.”

(I understand her time is coming someday, and I look for many words to say, but the dog  barks to blow his  magnificent words- rhymed  with ; Not-now. Not yet.)
..............................................................................................................................
*22/07/ 2015
Adam  has  just died ....
We are sad.

----------------------
13-08-2015
Eve  donates  Adam's cloths...
---------------------------






Tuesday, November 04, 2014

TAKE PRIDE IN BEING A HIGHLANDER

Kay Hassan

Oh,chieftains;  semi gods
Of Highlanders,
 Hallelujah
With the  tittle: Amir Akhur*
For having been  skilled,
 In the stables  of:
 Persia,
 Arabia,
And Turk-ia-  ,

You, are vile,
vassal ,
servile

Stop somewhere, graceless beasts,
And take pride in being- highlanders -
They are  usual members,
In the club of  our  Globe
,
Oh, chieftains; semi gods
Of Highlanders,
If have not been schooled, yet,
Or deny   the pride of your  folk;
Here is the School of Kobane 

* Amir Akur, literally means prince of manger or trough. It was a Medieval - Persian tittle given to the managers of animal stables .-It became  a high management post during the rule  of  Sultans and  Mamaleek  in Egyptian .


Friday, October 31, 2014

A PROPHET SPEAKS.



Kay Hassan


           1

A Prophet Speaks

(A Divine Chant Beyond Words—Of Revelation and Ruin)


On the Lord’s Altar,
where the Unseen writhes in silent fire,
lie many hidden stories—
the ones that gnaw at the veil,
the ones that whisper
in the bones of the earth.



I will...
not speak, but unmake.
Not preach,
but unfold the seams of heaven.
I will reduce the God’s word
into tears and dread—
each syllable a wound,
each verse a chasm
where light drowns.


And I shall...
not shepherd, but sculpt in shadows.
Not save,
but carve into the hollows of faith.
From my followers’ souls,
I make ashes.
Tombstones.
Their breath—my pyre.
Their prayers—
the epitaphs I inscribe upon the sky.

And I am certain—
as the void is certain of the falling star,
as the serpent is certain of the fall—
yet you believe in me.
You, who clutch my lies like sacred relics,
who swallow my thunder
and call it nectar.

And for all my lies,
you never ask,
"Why?"



2



The Voice Beyond the Altar (A Chant That Devours Gods and Stars) From the crucible where nothingness screams, where the Unseen coils in tongues of unlight, I am not born, but unspun— a wound in the fabric of forever, a hymn that shatters the spine of eternity. I do not speak. I unravel. Each word a black star collapsing, each breath a galaxy’s funeral pyre. My syllables are not sound, but the silence that strangles gods, the dread that drowns light in its cradle. I do not shepherd. I sculpt in the marrow of chaos. From the souls of the faithful, I weave tapestries of ash, threaded with their screams, hung upon the bones of forgotten heavens. Their prayers are not offerings, but gravestones I hurl into the abyss. You call me prophet, yet I am the lie that birthed your gods. You call me savior, yet I am the blade that carves your faith into ruin. You kneel, clutching my shadows as relics, drinking my venom and naming it wine. Your devotion is my monument, your ruin my crown. And I am certain— as the void is certain of its hunger, as the serpent is certain of the first sin— that you will never ask, Why? For in your blindness, you see me as light. In your surrender, you forge my throne. And in your silence, I become the only truth— a truth that unravels the stars, devours the divine, and leaves only my voice, echoing in the hollows of what was never meant to be.



Friday, October 17, 2014

THE BLACK STEED

Kay Hassan

Darker than  the dead of the night
Onyx  like - the stone of  the height.
Silhouetted  against the summer  light
shoulder to shoulder, raced  the  wind
And in the memories of the  highlanders,
No one had seen braver than her
As thunders are to clouds
-Black  and her holy  knight,
Were to the darkness of the height .

Despite the cracks of those  cruel  demons
Who  acted  akin to the tail wagging the dog
Black was forever on the move,
Came  and went with the brightest  moon
And  rived the light like a divine harpoon

                                 ***
Stately, someday,  Black’s  lord,
 Died with A LITTLE VERBAL  Will:
‘ Wake on my grave for three nights, boys.’
Fatima , the maid who cared for  Black.,
Was to her a twin to twin,
Startled in  the middle of  her dream,
When the smokes of the watch-fire
stretched away like a steady  scream
Fatima  was   woken up , and ran out
 Dazzled though  by  a  siren like shout.,
 Cried in her native language ;
  ANFAL HAT , ANFAL*…                            
                           ***
Fatima  knew the word  in a religion must
 Is  a   metaphor  for  every kind of rape.
‘Alas,’  gasped  she and shouted..
 ‘ Black…Black …Black,
My  dearest sister, Black .”

                        ***

Fatima the damsel  of  the old house,
  climbed the hill of the Gottesacker,
Where through the villagers  fled,
And  the  Height’s fighters - in dread ,
 Had   given  the ground very early ,
Escaped the battle. (Eagle like surely.)
                     
***
                             
Fatima knew none of her lord’s boys
Would be  giving up his joys
And waking on his father’s    shrine
But  for her duties ,(Fatima) was certain
 Black would …
Without dropping  to her a line   ….
                               ***
She hugged her in  a great fear,
“ Sister,“ yelled she. “Lets run, dear .”
Black nodded with tearing eyes,
Through a bunch  of whinnies and   neighs
Though she  did not speak  horses’  language,
 In what  her  sister  had   just uttered,
Fatima  perceived , the horse’s courage
Was the  ultimate  honor of the black steed
“Regret me not if  I  forced you to  decline ‘
‘Flee you won’t make a good concubine,’
“ Black !” Fatima  too, cried .
” For   God‘s sake, sister, flee.”
   
                          ***
Black forgot how to neigh,
Denying , to be an easy prey
Plied her vocal  cords  to play
 A big  melody for her last day
“ Oh beautiful daughters of  Highland,
 Remember my gallops, and sleight of hand
Softness, agility and  wind like beauty
And all things of  my foremost - duty  .’
I won’t flee this battlefield ,  girls ,
Even if was not through  my entire course,
A descendant   of any  great horse.”

                         ***

We left our lands for the  devils,
 Who flattened houses, men and fields
To sing  “We are storms  we are lions.’
And then, the time passed  so  slowly,
That  the snow covered the whole  heights,
Before even hit the first winter’s nights
But, nevertheless, no one since the day,.
 Saw Fatima sewing behind the window
Or   Black galloping  in the meadow.
                    *****
                     ***
                       *.
 

         Long Version

Black and Fatima

Darker than the dead of the night,
Onyx-like—the stone of the height.
Silhouetted against the summer light,
Shoulder to shoulder, raced the wind.
And in the memories of the highlanders,
No one had seen braver than her.
As thunders are to clouds—
Black and her holy knight,
Were to the darkness of the height.

For in those days, when God’s name echoed
From every stone and every prayer,
It was said the Almighty Himself
Had shaped Black not by the power of “Be, and it is,”
But with His own hand—
As He once formed man from the dust,
So too did He sculpt the noble steed,
Imbuing her with strength, grace, and spirit
That no mere word could bestow.
Her mane was woven with the night’s own silk,
Her courage poured from the wellspring of the Creator’s heart.
In every hoofbeat, the echo of divine intention;
In every breath, the memory of God’s touch.
Thus did Black stand—
Not only as a creature of legend,
But as a living testament to the Lord’s craftsmanship,
A guardian shaped by sacred hands
To keep vigil over the pious and the beloved,
Defiant against the diva and the darkness
That haunted the heights of our home.



Despite the cracks of the cruel demons
Who acted akin to the tail wagging the dog,
Black was forever on the move,
Her hooves drumming defiance through the valley’s hush.
She came and went with the brightest moon,
A shadow gliding swift over trembling fields,
And rived the darkness with a harpoon of light—
Not merely fleeing, but cleaving a path
Through every snare the night had set.

No spell or malice could slow her stride,
For in her heart burned a courage
That no demon’s laughter could ever quench.
She was the answer to every whispered prayer
That rose from our frightened homes at dusk—
A force that split the gloom,
Unwavering, relentless,
A living promise that the shadows
Would never claim the last word
While she still ran beneath God’s watching sky


***

Stately, someday, Black’s lord
Died, leaving only a little verbal will:
“Wake on my grave for three nights, boys.”
Such was the custom, believed to shield
The bones of the pious from the diva’s wrath—
A tradition older than memory,
Rooted deeper than the stones of our village.

Fatima, the maid who cared for Black,
Was to her a twin—soul to soul,
Bound by silent understanding,
By the hush of stables and the rhythm of gentle hands.
But on that night, when the world was torn open,
Fatima was startled awake in the middle of her dream,
As the smoke of the watch-fire
Stretched away like a steady scream,
A warning unraveling across the sky.

She ran out, heart pounding,
Dazzled and blinded by a siren’s cry—
A sound that was neither mortal nor divine,
But something beyond even God’s ordinary power,
As if the heavens themselves recoiled
From what was to come.

In her native tongue she cried,
“ANFAL  HAT, ANFAL…”
A word that, in her faith,
Was a shadow cast by men,
A metaphor for every kind of rape,
Every desecration that language cannot hold.

“Alas,” she gasped, her voice breaking,
“Black… Black… Black,
My dearest sister, Black.”
And in that cry, the world seemed to pause—
As if even the angels held their breath,
Unable to intervene
In the sorrow that now swept the heights.



***



Fatima, the damsel of the old house,
Climbed the haunted hill of the Gottesacker,
Her steps steady, heart pounding beneath the weight of memory.
Around her, the path was scarred by hurried footprints—
The villagers had fled through the night,
Their shadows swallowed by fear and the unknown.
The fighters of the Height,
Usually fierce as mountain storms,
Had yielded the ground early,
Their pride and valor scattered to the winds,
Escaping the battle—eagle-like, surely—
Their retreat swift, silent, and sorrowful.

Yet Fatima pressed upward,
Her resolve shining in the dusk,
A beacon against the trembling dark.
She moved with purpose,
Her every breath a silent prayer,
Her every step echoing with the memory of hoofbeats—
For she climbed not only for virginity  alone,
But for the bond that tied her to Black,
And for all the stories that would be lost
If she did not face the gathering night.


***

Fatima knew, with a sorrow that settled deep in her bones,
That none of her lord’s sons would come—
Not one would abandon the fleeting joys of safety and shelter,
Not one would brave the haunted night
To keep vigil on their father’s grave,
As tradition and honor demanded.

The world had changed overnight;
The old customs, once as solid as the stones beneath their feet,
Had been scattered by fear and the thunder of distant guns.
The sons, once proud as lions,
Were now shadows in exile,
Their absence a wound that bled into the heart of the house.

But Fatima, bound by a duty older than blood,
Felt the weight of memory and promise settle on her shoulders.
She knew, with a certainty that needed no words,
That Black—the family’s midnight guardian—
Would not forsake the vigil,
Would not abandon the resting place of the one who had loved her.

No whispered message, no hurried farewell,
No note left behind in the hush of the stable—
Yet Fatima understood:
Black would be there, drawn by loyalty deeper than command,
By a devotion that did not falter in the face of darkness or dread.
It was a silent pact,
Forged in the quiet hours of feeding and care,
In the gentle brush of hand against mane,
In the unspoken language of trust
That needed no witness but God.

And so, as the village emptied and the world was undone,
Fatima felt the pull of that sacred bond—
A promise kept not by men,
But by her soul who crafted Black,
Who would stand watch when all others had fled,
A sentinel beneath the indifferent stars,
Keeping faith with the dead and the living alike.


***

The Ultimate Farewell

In the trembling half-light,
Fatima threw her arms around Black’s strong neck,
Clutching her as one clings to a memory
On the edge of being erased.
Her breath came in ragged sobs,
Her heart pounding a frantic plea
Against the silence of the hills.

“Pray you, sister,” she cried, her voice splintered with fear,
“Let’s run, dear, let’s run—
Before the world swallows us whole,
Before the soldiers and their shadows
Find us in this last refuge of night.”
She pressed her cheek to Black’s warm flank,
Tasting the salt of her own tears,
Hoping, for a moment,
That love might be enough to save them both.

Black, the midnight guardian,
Met Fatima’s gaze with eyes shining,
Wet with a sorrow that words could never hold.
She nodded, a gesture almost human,
Her body trembling with the storm inside her—
A chorus of whinnies and desperate neighs
Rising from her throat,
A music of terror and longing
That echoed across the empty fields.

Though Fatima had never spoken the language of horses,
She understood, in that shattering moment,
Everything her sister wished to say.
In the flicker of Black’s ears,
In the defiant lift of her head,
Fatima saw a courage
That burned brighter than the watch-fires,
A loyalty that would not yield
Even as the world collapsed.

“Regret me not if I force you to decline,”
Fatima whispered, her voice breaking,
“Flee—you won’t make a good concubine.
You are meant for the wind,
For the freedom of the hills,
Not for the chains of men who know only how to destroy.”
Her words hung in the air,
Heavy as a curse,
Heavy as the fate that had befallen them.

“Black!” she cried, her voice rising in anguish,
“For God’s sake, sister, flee!”
But Black stood her ground,
Hooves planted in the earth as if rooted by the hand of God Himself,
Refusing to abandon the place of memory,
The grave of her master,
The promise she had made in silence.

In that moment, time seemed to fracture—
The world shrinking to the space between girl and horse,
Between hope and despair.
Fatima’s hands shook as she pressed her face
Into Black’s mane, inhaling the scent of grass and sweat,
Of all the lost days of childhood,
Of every morning spent in the stable,
Of every evening spent beneath the stars.

The night pressed in, thick with the threat of violence,
And Fatima knew, with a certainty that hollowed her soul,
That this was goodbye.
No words could bridge the chasm opening between them,
No prayer could undo the ruin that marched ever closer.
She clung to Black,
As if by holding on she could keep the world from ending,
As if love could be a shield against the coming storm.

But the world was already ending,
And the gods, if they watched, wept in silence.
The hills bore witness to the breaking of a bond
That had outlasted fear,
Outlasted even hope.
And as Fatima staggered back,
Her hands empty,
Her heart shattered,
Black lifted her head to the sky
And sang a melody of loss so pure,
So piercing,
That even the stars seemed to dim in mourning.

There, on the haunted hill,
With the darkness closing in,
Fatima and Black stood—
Sisters in spirit,
Divided by fate,
Bound forever by a love
Too fierce for this world to hold.


***

Black forgot how to neigh,
Refused to be an easy prey,
Her voice, once a gentle greeting at dawn,
Now rose with new purpose—
She plied her vocal cords to play
A melody vast as the valley,
A song spun for her last day beneath the sky.

It was not a cry of surrender,
But a hymn of defiance,
A music that soared above the ruined fields
And swept through the broken hearts of those who listened.
Her notes carried the memory of wild gallops,
Of moonlit races across the highland grass,
Of the sleight of hoof and sudden turn,
Of softness, agility, and wind-like beauty—
All the gifts bestowed by the hand of her Maker,
All the things she had cherished as her foremost duty.

“Oh, beautiful daughters of Highland,”
Her song seemed to call,
“Remember the thunder of my gallops,
The grace in my stride, the courage in my heart.
Remember how I danced with the wind,
How I bore my burdens with pride,
How I never bowed my head to fear.

Let my memory be a banner for your own wild spirits,
A reminder that dignity is not in blood or lineage,
But in the choice to stand,
To sing,
To face the darkness with eyes wide open.

I will not flee this battlefield, girls—
Not for fear, nor for the promise of another dawn.
Even if, through my entire course,
I was never counted among the descendants
Of any great horse,
Still, I will hold this ground,
And let my last song be a testament
That courage is its own inheritance.”

So Black’s voice rose,
A melody that lingered on the wind
Long after the world had fallen silent—
A final gift, a legacy,
For all who would remember.


***

We left our lands for the devils,
Who flattened houses, men, and fields—
Who came with fire and thunder,
Turning orchards to ashes and laughter to dust,
So they could sing, “We are storms, we are lions,”
Their voices echoing over the ruins
Where our stories once grew.

We left behind the scent of bread at dawn,
The hush of prayers beneath ancient roofs,
The warmth of hands that once built these homes,
And the graves of those who taught us to hope.
We left, and the world behind us collapsed
Into a silence so deep
That even the birds forgot their songs.

And then, time passed so slowly—
Each day stretching into a gray eternity,
The hours heavy as stones,
Until the snow covered the whole heights,
Blanketing the wounds of the earth
Before even the first winter’s nights had come.
The cold crept in, not just to the fields,
But into the bones of memory,
Freezing every echo of what was lost.

But, nevertheless, no one since that day
Saw Fatima sewing behind the window,
Her hands moving with patient grace
As the light faded from the hills.
No one heard her laughter drifting from the yard,
Or caught her silhouette against the evening fire.
No one saw Black galloping in the meadow,
Her mane a banner on the wind,
Her hooves drumming the old songs
Into the heart of the valley.

Since then, we have wandered—
Carrying our stories like embers,
Trying to keep them alive against the wind.
The devils took our land,
But it is the silence that claimed us,
A silence where names are whispered only in dreams,
And the faces of Fatima and Black
Are shadows we chase across the snow.

We left our lands for the devils,
Who flattened houses, men, and fields,
To sing, “We are storms, we are lions.”
And still, the time passes so slowly,
The snow falls, and the heights remember—
But no window is lit by Fatima’s lamp,
No meadow is stirred by Black’s gallop,
And the world waits,
Haunted by all that will never return.


***

Indeed, within my heart, I miss you both—
I miss you, Black.
I miss you, Fatima.




                    *****
                     ***
                       *.
 






( Anfal :  The Act of  Looting  and Killing   Which is  Legitimately  practiced by Muslims. )
Black,  absolutely, truly , really- indeed  was one of our horses, was taken  in the Anfal).

Gottesacker, or God acre


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