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For anyone wondering, the inspiration for this was homework. Yes, that's right homework. This however, was not accepted as an essay, according to English standards : ( We should just throw essay rules out the window. Or off a mountain : ( I may be unproportionally bitter about this. Oh well...

source: https://www.aljazeera.com/programmes/the-crusades-an-arab-perspective/2016/12/shock-crusade-conquest-jerusalem-161205081421743.html

They Say, Yet, They Do Not Listen To the Pages of Olden Days

May 27, 2020

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5

They say a raven follows death. They say it flits bout from one tragic loss to the other; a scavenger. It feeds off the sickening stench of sadness in the air. The heavy silence that settles over the corpses. The tender flesh that clings to the bones like a lifeline. 

They say a raven follows death. And just so the raven perches on a branch, overlooking the little town of Hamlin. 

They say the pied piper of Hamlin lured the children away with his melodious flute. That he pulled at their heartstrings with soft chimes. 

The raven sighs, and spreads its wings.

They say, they say, they say.

Yet, they don’t know.

They say the old days were cruel. That they were brutal, and unforgiving. Torture was widespread in the Tower of London. Tongues were pulled out, never to utter a single thing again. Never to sing of the crooning trees. Never to tell their children ‘I love you, my darling’.

They say, they say, they say.

Yet, they don’t see.

They say the Knights were loyal. They say the Lionheart fought for freedom, for religion, for peace. They say Jerusalem was conquered. They say the Crusaders suffered journeys. 

They say.

Yet, why do they not listen?

The raven cries sand and seas of salt. Olive trees and saffron spice. The raven soars over lit streets and crying mothers. It covers them with a starlit night. 

Outside, horses snort and throw their heads. The moon cries moonlit sand, in a stark realization. 

They say they fought with honor.

They lie.

Horse on ground, shaking the world with terror and blinding sandstorms. The crow wrapped his arms around the frightened children, as they marched in. 

That night, the streets flowed red waves. 

They say, they say, they say.

Yet, did they not pause? Did they not stop to know that the Lionheart’s famous heart, was stoned and dark.

Swords pierce buttered skin. The houses bleed. Massacre. Killing. Corpses lines the streets. The fires kissed their still-warm bodies.

The slaughtered mothers. They slaughtered innocent children. They slaughtered strong young men, and their parents.

They say they were kind.

Do tell, what kind person rips fragile bones apart like it is paper, uncaring for the beautiful lives drawn. What kind person laughs as a child’s eyes go dull, as they lay in their mother’s limp arms. 

Slaughter is for animals. Slaughter is for mindless animals. Slaughter is for animals.

And they trample their hooves on splayed limbs.

Their minds rang with songs of wealth and power. 

They say they fought for religion. 

Edessa cries out. It’s waters screamed otherwise, pointing fingers at them. Their hands shone red in the sunlight, their ripped capes splattered with raw blood and flesh. Their hearts are stone behind their ribs.  Their eyes blind, their ears deaf.

The raven casts its shadow over their heads. They rejoice, momentarily. 

The raven heaves. 

They say a raven follows death. 

They say, they say, they say.

Yet, they still run into walls, blind.

They say,  a hundred years and more. A centuries long never-ending war. They say they rose up like heroes.

They say, they marched lands over lands with utmost belief. Do not they hear the lies stuffed into their gaping maws, filling them up to the brim as they burst forth, shattering in rain pour of swords of bleeding words; a maggot and its home. 

The raven stands, head held high, in contempt, as the maggot lays hers eggs in the milky corpses of puppeteered shells. They hatch and run up their veins’ an adder’s poison, adding fuel to the burning gasoline of their oily souls.

And, still. What about the ones defending what’s theirs? The brave-hearted Turkmen. They rode whirlwinds of courage, kicking up sand of bravery, throwing it into the eyes of the ones infested by teeming maggots spilling out their eyes, their ears, their nose, their fingertips and they clawed, clawed, clawed their eyes out with daggers of clean cut granite stone.

The old man’s donkey cried with deep flowing regret.

They say, they say, they say.

Yet, they turn their heads away from the mottled pages of time gone by, leaving Salahideen to ride among the sands of the hourglass.
I tried. I tried to make it reach the min for a contest. I'm still a thousand and two hundred ninety five words away. 
 

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  • May 27, 2020 - 3:03pm (Now Viewing)

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1 Comment
  • purplepanache

    god, i really enjoyed this. the symbolism was lovely and the language was so very beautiful. i love your writing.


    6 months ago