Arab Lover

They have appointed you to death. I witnessed a map with thumbtacks pressed into your provinces. The ornate ribbons and medallions cinched to a uniform is able to remake a man's heart. Through trinkets he begins to think ghoulishly upon the fate of those who are seperated from us by a single sand storm. Surely this people are driven mad by the sun. If we cut them down before their children, the world will applaud and belch out some discount philosophy concerning freedom. And should the orphans rise in defiance, we will double the production of munitions. Yet I have dotted upon you before multi-colored alert systems. Before city states dared to mix their rice and beans, you mixed the alpha and numeric with dazzling mathematical abstraction. You have brewed the grinds of Ethiopians to give us joy in the morning. Bullfighters performed in dead silence until you placed an olé upon the tongues of a locked audience. Am I to now believe this same genetic heritage has crossed oceans to blindly destroy? How long have you combed miles of silt in search of improvised explosives only to trip over a darbuka? A dossier has no doubt been created for me. We are not permitted to speak glowingly about the many kindnesses that have been shown us after merciless raids. They have spent millenia on shaping hospitality into a priceless artform. For this cause I have loved them in secret lest my government found a reason to indict me over it. Were it not for the gorgeous artifacts of expertly woven rugs, blown glass, painted tiles, and bronze jugs, I could not stave off the suspicion of my plain affection for a people chased by a Western sword. Must I cheer when our bombardments make their apartment high rises equal to the ground? There is so much death wrapped up in thin parables of might. Why do we wonder after the veils of their garments and mysteries? They are not concealing themselves from the sun, but from our hidden marksmen. Esua has forgiven generously, but who forgives Esua?