The shops were closed
and before dusk
the temple was vacant
as not
since the war.
As many masjids
as there were hours
saw broken glass,
or threats.
And people feared.
And the pens weren't
stilled,
and neither were swords,
as some struck with letters,
and others, firebombs.
As, a thousand miles away,
villages disappeared
in a blasphemy
more vulgar than any
comic's art;
While a writer
tasted the first of a thousand lashes.
As innocent as a prophet
and clothed with the same flesh,
twisting with nowhere to lay his head.
While I lay safe in my hole
as birds in their nests...
sharpening my quill.
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