“This is a strange new kind of war where you learn just as much as you are able to believe.”

–Ernest Hemingway

A Soldier’s Arabic

The word for love, habib, is written from right

to left, starting where we would end it

and ending where we might begin.


Where we would end a war,

another might take as a beginning,

or as an echo of history, recited again.


Speak the word for death, maut,

and you will hear the cursives of the wind

driven into the veil of the unknown.


This is a language made of blood.

It is made of sand, and time.

To be spoken, it must be earned.

Well said, Ernest Hemingway.

War continues today in such a deceptive manner that people overlook it.

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