A Shallow Grave

ShallowGrave

A Shallow Grave by Professor A.L.I.

He digs a shallow grave.

With a blade blunted by battle.

A child, so young;

That should’ve been playing with rattles

But now a corpse, a dehydrated husk, a shell,

His spirit lingers and divine musk’s the smell.

His mother places her recent newborn into the hole,

This six month old, was born of Yemeni Cloak.

His little lips cracked, dryer than Karbala’s sand.

And his throat lacerated by Hurmila’s hand.

Parents take turns, with palmfuls of earth

To bury the son, who they’d just given birth.

The tears rain on the grave, there is no marker.

As the mother grieves, the father is martyred.

Then the demons descend, upon women in tents.

Fight or flight, torches alight, fire intense.

Wretches reach for spoils, ears bleed as if sliced

And in these fleeting moments for life,

She rushes towards the corpse of another.

The martyred shell of her son’s elder step-brother.

She calls to him, “Ya Akbar! The protector, the brave!”

Now guard the sanctity of your young brother’s grave.

Dragging his frame; weighted so heavy with armor.

All she had left in the world, was this grave’s marker.

She places his cold hand over small earthly mound.

Yet next morning; the wicked army would count:

Seventy-one bodies, and sever seventy-one heads.

As a sign of victory; impale them on spearheads.

Then the malevolent general, recalls the recent tragedy,

And asks where the fruit that fell off this family’s tree?

Where’s the child, the three-pronged arrow extinguished?

Where is its body?  Where is the grave? Who bears its witness?

And they torture the survivors bound, to reveal its location.

Then this dreadful devil, had a satanic revelation.

That if there was a grave, its corpse would bloody a sword and–

This was the same general, who was once an orphan.

Raised by this holy family, so the infant was like his brother.

Now on his order, they stab ground, brutalizing the mother.

Amidst the ashes of tents, lays a headless corpse over mound.

The swords cut into earth, dripping blood, Ali Asghar was found.

They dug this child out of his shallow grave, his family cries.

A smiling cadaver, they cut off his head; as their humanity dies.

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A Lamb Slaughtered

 

Prologue

In the 660’s CE, the wicked caliph, Muawiyya, a usurper and despot, would gift lambs to the children in Damascus, the capitol he controlled, and once these innocent youth had developed attachment to their pets, he had their lambs slaughtered by his soldiers at night, so that these children awoke to the horrific sight, and in despair.  He had town criers announce the lie that these lambs had been slaughtered by Ali, who was the legitimate leader of these lands. The sorrow, turned to rage and these children would grow brainwashed to hate Ali and his family, and they would eventually make up the army that would systematically slaughter the family of Ali… including children and infants. This poem is dedicated to this true story:

ALambSlaughteredA Lamb Slaughtered by Professor A.L.I.

The child whose pet lamb was slaughtered in Damascus,

Grows to be a man steeling himself towards thirsty infants,

Loyalty based on lies, allegiance to despots; his soul burns.

When the veil is torn and death approaches; he mourns.

These are crocodile tears, since the veil was pierced before,

The moment he saw an old man place his child on desert floor.

When his own canteen was sloshing, full of life giving liquid.

He could have undid strap, and his own damaged spirit, lifted–

The flask to the lips of this innocent being; instead he’d see.

The horror brought upon, be an arrow-pronged-three.

In that moment, a mirage caused by his teary, blurred vision:

Of his own lamb, gifted to him; the false caliph’s wicked wisdom.

To have him name his pet, become attached, and then awaken,

To find his beloved friend, murdered by the caliph’s agents.

And town criers announce it as a plot by a man known as Ali.

A shrewd lie, constructed by a usurper, to acquire loyalty.

Political brainwashing so thorough, that this man would believe,

That his lamb was slaughtered, by the Prophet’s family.

Brainwashed thoroughly, he severs limbs of this family’s tree.

A soldier for Yazeed, Muawiyya’s seed, the most sinister breed.

So when the baby was placed before him, he took not a step,

No water for the 6-month old infant gasping its last breath,

He watches this tragedy, and unfolds towards his own death.

He sees the truth; and now bears the burden of great debt.

And yet, when the old man asked him, “If no one was left to help him–

If no one was there to give him aid?” He still grasped his weapons.

And instead of helping, destroys, and lays claims a destination.

An eternal conflagration, burning amidst a hellish congregation.

And he sees himself in this place, wielding the same blade.

That was used by a lie, to cultivate this boy’s rage.

His hands and face are covered in blood, just like Husayn’s–

The blood of his own lamb, that he slaughtered that same day.

Children of Karbala

ChildrenofKarbala.jpg

The story of three children brutally killed at Karbala. They were grandchildren of Fatima and great grandchildren of the Prophet Muhammad. The young teen, Qasim ibn Hasan, was stomped to death by horses. Ali Akbar was stabbed in the back and Ali Asghar, known as Abdullah, who was only 6 months old had his throat lacerated. All three corpses were beheaded. These heinous acts were carried out by those who called themselves Muslims, even as they slaughtered the family of their Prophet. These were the predecessors of the Taliban, ISIS, and other hateful groups today.

Bury My Tamil Heart At Karbala

Bury My Tamil Heart At Karbala by Professor A.L.I.

My hemoglobin fills the chambers of dodo quill pens.

My heart, recycled parchment; my third eye: the lens.

Lifted by thick aroma, Appa’s savory sambar angrily boils!

Just like Tamil tea picking blood when no diamonds or oil–

Distract the mainstream with the genocide of filtered coffee drinkers.

Who cares about an island of demons faced with extinction?

My mother’s grandfather was blessed by a cobra’s boon.

Yet my father’s cousin died by its poison, after five transfusions.

I tried to grasp at Saint Elmo’s fire and hold a stellar fossil.

These old tales linger like scent of mountain jasmine in my nostrils.

Yet like lotus pollen, it explodes forth, carried forcefully by the winds:

British Wind, French Wind, Portuguese Wind and Arab Wind.

Indian Monsoons bring floods that release the shadow’s venom.

Just as the comfort of cotton lungis are exchanged for harsh denim.

The feeling of cold scales gliding across one’s feet is icy concrete.

Lost in asphalt jungles while our umbilical cords recede back into sea.

Once recognized as royalty in the heart of merchant barter.

I roamed as a slave; freed by the second son of the Prophet’s daughter.

From Kerala to Karbala, I travelled with Adam,

And pondered my existence, as I spun like my atoms.

I became a dervish, around the source of my passions.

Vow of silence like Buddhists and tried to speak with my actions.

I trekked to a village in Malabar named after Ali.

Where a girl was born, who’ll one day, birth me.

Could she see, facing west from Malabar shores?

The house in the desert, where Imam Ali was born?

I’ll never know, as Sita is now one with her mother.

Her ashes ripple atop Pacific waves as I shudder,

Torn And Mad In Loss; I was The Angry Man In Limbo

A T.A.M.I.L., empty (M.T.) without Ali (A.L.I.) I ail, slow.

Like a waking dream inscribed on the back of a holy tortoise.

A primary source of an archetype bereft of remorse.

Mercilessly repeating in every land, for everyday since

On Ashura, “Muslims” murdered Fatima’s prince!

I cried when I heard the story, like I cried for the womb that bore me,

For the father that once ignored me, while I was an unborn seed.

I was circumstance’s orphan, bombarded, searching for cover!

So when my Amma died, Fatima Az-Zahra, became my mother.

And I began to see Hussain everywhere, in every innocent soul.

I plunged into sea of my waking dreams, and the son of Ali spoke!

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The Cycle of Oppression

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The wine trickles down my face, you sought to disgrace
Instead I take your ‘chosen place’ beyond the heavenly gates
To drink the wine with my beloved that doesn’t intoxicate
So I await the day of judgment to see the Ahlul Bayt

But wait…

Will it be Intercession or a grand intervention…?
A reality check to the ‘so called’ victims of oppression
Those words written only for the hypocrisy that exists
The story of ‘sliced wrists’, and of shackles that now fit

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Tamil refugees trapped in the fertile crescent, chained
So I can’t believe you when you beat your chest and wail for Hussain
I remember Jaan, Bilal, even the bloodline of Hajar
They are responsible for the prayers, the meek offer
Along with Sumana, Susan, and the eyes of Hakima
This train of thought is not the Zion or FEMA


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You see…

Oppression is when your footsteps, cannot be heard
In places your mother bore you, or a flightless migratory bird
When your shadow is shackled, your breath incarcerated
When your dreams are murdered, imagination lacerated

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No oil or diamonds to fund nonprofits to broadcast your story
Or shout outs by Amy Goodman, or a Papal stamped allegory
No presidential address, no parliamentary speech that stresses it
Yet women and children are undressed, shipped, in new vessels
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To become the new slaves, of a new trade, on this new day…
So, I feel for Arab victims, but my criticism is not veiled
It’s direct against those that claim to be victims yet victimize
Like the Arabs that ensnare my  Pinoy and Malay cousins

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And my Tamil brethren, or what Tamils do to indigenous tribesman
The cycle goes on… even though there is nowhere to hide from
The wrath that descends, upon the domes of the unrighteous
Inspired by these evil acts, I was forced to write this…