March of Lost

 K Hassan

O ye Muse of men, sing to me

of bones that bear the stains of centuries,
of oath-bound hearts crossing dust-choked battlefields.

Time slips, like wuthering wind, through cracked fingers;
yet, unconscious, amid the crowd we march
upon the terrain where bleeding never sates.

Let your immortal melody flow,
like silvered light cutting the darkness,
guiding me through shadowed corridors,
beyond star upon star,

until the endless chambers of night unfurl,
woven from the threads of a shattered cosmos.

In the mythical, cave-like darkness,
we march and whisper in dread: “Bismillah,
Bismillah, Bismillah, Bismillah.”

We stand in the silence after God’s final refrain—
a hymn that trembles, then dissolves into starless void.

Our counsel, like stones cast into a lightless abyss,
yields no echo, only the ash of an unspoken inferno—
a smoldering requiem for heavens long forsaken.

Angelic names, once radiant as supernovae,
fray into nullity, their glow devoured by the hunger of oblivion.
Time staggers, a clockwork deity frozen mid-breath,
its gears grinding to dust beneath a sky—
a vast loom, unturned, its threads tangled in eternity’s pause.

Through these unraveling dreams,
we wander, shadows among shadows,
our voices brewing spells to fracture the silence,
yet never piercing the veil of ideals.

Among us, the wise and weathered—
bearded as ancient oaks,
shaped by storm and shadow—
speak in riddles curling like smoke
around pillars broken by silence.

No prophecy comes, only whispers:
warnings tangled in memory
like nets abandoned to the tide;
hints of carnage yet to come,
names swallowed by sea waves.

We bury our dead beneath a moon that silvers the plains—
not with hymn or harp, but with rough hands and hurried silence.
Their eyes stay open, staring into the infinite abyss,
into the indifferent crown of the night.

Blood on their brows gleams like rubies in the last light,
when a laughter rings out—
neither human nor beast, but older than the earth’s bones,
loud as bronze struck by thunder, echoing beneath our feet.

“Behold!” it cries, and breath is caught in dread.
Like a storm splitting the sea, awe and terror seize the ranks.

“Holy Mother of God,” one whispers, fingers white on his blade.
“Get ready,” croaks another, voice raw with broken prayers.

Again the word—“Behold!”—falls,
a spear through hope and flesh.

So men cling to names like shields against the void—
“Holy Mother of God,”
“Are you Catholic?”
“Jesus Christ.”

Earth yawns beneath us, cracked open by our march.

Yet no chariot wheels flame to life, no steeds of dawn arise—
only the names of the forgotten, etched in ash and bone
at the broken rim of the world’s endless night.

The veiled sky turns her face, silent as fates weaving the unseen—
yet oath-bound, bronze-hearted,
we march, we fight, we halt—
driven by fate’s iron thread,
haunted by voices rising from dust and dream,
echoing, fading—
as all men do,
under the responsive sky—
before a throne not made of gold,
but of breath and silence,
where whispered prayers hang like stars,
and the gaze that watches waits—
neither wrathful nor kind,
but vast as eternity itself —

…bearing witness to the march of men,
whose feet ascend beyond earth’s ruin,
with hearts still beating across.

Dieu oublié par le temps.

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