Poetry has long been a mirror to the soul, a blade as sharp as any warrior's katana.
The samurai, fierce in battle, equally revered the arts, understanding that cultivating the soul was as crucial as honing martial skills. Famous for their discipline, they knew that poetry shaped the spirit, which was of the utmost importance to them.
In the Arab world, poets have been esteemed since the dawn of civilization, and from Homer's epics to Shakespeare's sonnets, poetry has been a guiding force of culture, wisdom, and even warfare.
Words hold power—the power to heal, to wound, and to haunt.
'The Cry of Death' is a tale of love betrayed, revenge sought, and the chilling hand of fate. It's not perfect, but I wrote it in 2009 and I like it. Sometimes, meter and structure take a backseat to the story and emotion. This one delves into betrayal, revenge, and the price one pays for wishing on others what you wouldn't want for yourself.
So, without much ado, I present to you something that you might have felt someday in your life but wouldn't want to wish on your enemy.
Artistic representation for The Cry of Death
The Cry of Death
When I saw you walk away,
And I sat down for a while,
Not knowing what to say.
Deep down inside my muscled chest,
And I'd wondered if it was too soon,
For me to walk alongside death.
Why don't you turn away?"
He told me he wasn't sure,
For now, he had to stay.
I said I didn't know,
And then he turned his eyes outside,
To that great blanket of snow.
What lay beneath the mountain of white,
My car, my wife, my childhood friend,
The one who was playing with my life.
But then he skidded and hit the tree,
And down it came on them,
Her head, between his knees, quivering.
I turned and walked away,
Death asked, "Who do you want?
I'll just take one today."
I struck it rich with this one ticket,
I didn't know, she didn't care,
I'll spend my half, I'll take her share.
While she was outside playing,
I called my friend on his phone,
As I heard it outside ringing."
It's claiming its next victim,
As I feel the pain inside my chest,
For Death is taking me with them.
JR. 2009
"Be careful what you wish onto others, for Death plays no favorites."
Perhaps we should return to poetry—not as a relic of the past, but as a tool to sharpen the mind and fortify the spirit. Sometimes it's best to wield words, not weapons. Even in the animal kingdom, forgiveness is an instinct. Shouldn't it be at the forefront of our humanity?