War is itself a form of blasphemy, and yet wars are waged over blasphemies perceived. Strange, isn’t it? Somehow I doubt that any fundamentalist really grasps whatever “truth” there is to be found within their dogma or sees the ridiculous irony in attempting to force those around them into adhering to their convictions.
Blasphemy
Bold, near-sighted fools bray, “Sacrilege!”;
and yet, is not their own way sacrilege?
Fortress prisons seal the heart from love
‘till light itself becomes gray sacrilege.
When men in high position lose their faith,
they then make of their faith a sacrilege.
How can we feathers grow to soar in flight
when we must deem our own clay sacrilege?
The judging stones that crush a hidden face
create within their own fray sacrilege.
If there is One that language can’t define,
then how does but a word say sacrilege?
Around the world brave guns and sabers flash.
But think! How does their rage slay sacrilege?
Both doves and ravens dance upon the winds;
who calls the way that these pray sacrilege?
And you Zahhar are not above the rest;
dare not believe that men stay sacrilege.
This is my 56th ghazal.
Publication History:
Muse Apprentice Guild (web-based) — Fall 2003
