March of the Mercenaries

Love was the only religion / I ever recognized. We / arrived with love-words, it became / even more relevant. I made / our anxieties mine, the rhythm / of your breathing, the frequent ache / of your calloused feet, and then / without unease / your religion too. / But very soon / I discovered that Allah was / not your Master; fearing the wrath / of your commanders you left me, / your march was that of a soldier / who belonged to a regiment / of mercenaries, your courage / that of a robot’s remotely controlled. / Where is the paradise / we together dreamt of, / gardens filled with nightingales’ song, / angels sliding down the blue skies? / I do not any more hold you / in my arms. An ache lives within, / an ache that does not seem to die... / The crumbling of my world thumps / against my ear, the trees descend, / flowers drop, ripened fruits fall / and the nightingales’ / nests fill with eggs. / When an egg breaks / I think of a tomorrow / that ends like / a foetus that dies, open-mouthed.