Old

I saw
a wretch
with missing limbs,
and creaking joints,
a tilted head,
a back bent,
and a hoarse
whine.

Come!
Look!
The devil waits!
Strain your eyes,
focus your light.
Aim at the dark
corners of the world—
in the alleys
behind the dumps,
next to the destitutes
that shat themselves
yesterday,
and the day before.

That’s her.
A purple scar,
another in white
on her side.
On her chest,
a stab—
rotten black with circles red,
whirling around
a heart
made of old,
just old,
and stone
erected for
Haddad,
then Jupiter,
then Christ,
and finally a Mosque.

Its people,
forgotten,
ill-gotten,
crawl like moss:
brown,
white,
and yellow,
churning,
oozing,
in endless strife.

Whisper—
else she hopes.
Let her be:
a goliath doomed.
Damascus.