All monies’ possession is their sanctuary, Al-Mani’s recall is only in their mortuary, But, Know! Their glow will fade with just a cycle of moon, And, in the Cutter-of-Crescent’s Child is their doom.
Despair,
Undoing damp on our will.
Dying in indifference, we have yielded to.
We proclaim, while we palter on two-bit pickles,
“As slaves of draft, are these sand bound,
Beyond for us are even basic footing.
Never, might we be standing.”
Within the sfumato,
It bends to insist
—Burdened by, Jane Nichols’ worth of,
cries
That cowardly claim, “quixotic,” its insistent tries—
Yes,
They maim our identities,
They mutilate our sanctities
But,
No! They can’t burn out the light
That burns such nonpareil bright.
Yes,
They minimize our liberties,
They maraud our properties.
But,
Gnaw, while they insatiably, at the candle’s tail,
Starves only their succor’s signet, in carnal betrayal.
Yes,
All monies’ possession is their sanctuary,
Al-Mani’s recall is only in their mortuary,
But,
Know! Their glow will fade with just a cycle of moon,
And, in the Cutter-of-Crescent’s Child is their doom.
—Resurrected by, Mesopotamian Good’s priceless, immolates,
That bravely believe betoken, its persistent escalates—
Out of the chiaroscuro,
It rises to persist,
“As Lord of gale, is this grain’s Preserver,
Preordained for it is unequaled pinnacle height.
Soon, will it take flight.”
It replies, while it relies on Two-Weighty Allies.
Living for a difference, it has chosen.
Constructing aflame its fateful,
Hope.
