Again: A Poem About Ashura

by Abeer Ameer
Ashura eulogies bleed pens dry.
Loss envelops mourning
recalling that fateful morning
reborn are tales of tragedy.
I wonder why,
beyond the savagery
of blood-boiling travesty
quenching thirst of bloodthirsty,
I still see unending mystery
that we continue to repeat history.
we turn blind eyes
but shed crocodile cries,
yet, that basic right
to kindness and dignified life
is slain and buried in hateful strife.
compassion readily denied,
justice is carried away by tide,
though lip service is paid,
we’re not paying our dues.
It is clear.
Their sacred memory lives on each year,
but something’s alack.
It is not only our clothes that are black.
though our bodies live
side by side,
it is we, not they, who died.