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