In the Mind of a Little Brother

A rustle, a crash, a groan, a scream
Awoke me from my blissful dream
The peace shattered, I opened my eye,
"Who dareth awake me, and why?"

My sister sat there guilty-eyed
A broken vase too, I espied,
And as if to complete the tale
Her face became a ghostly pale

Her hand with broken shards was filled
The shards that the vase's corpse had spilled
Her white frock became a morbid red
From the blood that her guilty hands shed

I stared down at her quivering face,
"In fear, woman loses all her grace!"
So felt I, as I stared down
At my sister with a menacing frown

Tears down her face came streaming
Pathetic guilt in her apologies teeming,
She wrapped her bloody hands round my knee
Groveling and blubbering her desperate plea

I softened my tone, stroking her head
Sat her down on the edge of the bed
Laying to rest all her qualms,
I took her into my comforting arms.

Naive Woman! To believe that I,
Her brother, would not deign to lie,
She sighed in relief, let down her guard
And I stabbed her with a jagged shard

Her neck first I did pierce,
Stabbed at it with a passion fierce
As soon as her writhing body went slack
I went to work upon her back

A merry tune I whistled and sung
As I sliced into her now lifeless tongue
Then I carved a message on her face,
"A woman must always know her place"

Dance of the Zalongos

They awoke to the sound of screams,

Despairing wails and wretched moans

Their city, once beautiful, was being reduced

To crushed pebbles and crumbling stones

The onslaught was unstoppable

The enemy numbered too great

The men fought valiant and strong

But which man can overpower fate?

The walls soon tottered and fell

Rubble and dust reigned supreme

The end of the battle drew nigh

The streets with corpses teemed

The men knew the end they faced

They’d fight on until they perished

The women too were of one mind

For above all, their pride they cherished

For it is the fate of every war

That when a victor arises

The defeated men die fighting

And the women are claimed as prizes

A hardened race these women were

Unused to a life of leisure

Their pride would not see them turned

Into a mere source of pleasure

They marched resolute, stony-faced

Straight onwards to the cliff’s edge

They marched silent, unwavering

Taking strength from their unspoken pledge

Each woman led from in front

While her children followed close behind

Till every family in the land of Zalongo

Up against the cliff’s edge was lined

Suddenly up amongst them arose

A chant of great depth and fervor

A woman grasped her child’s small hand

And the firstborn was thrown over

They pitched, they swayed,

In stormy cavalcade

And the chanting only did grow

The mother’s eyes wild

She followed her child

Into the watery depths below

The singing still grew

As each mother threw

Her child to meet its doom

With great song and laughter

She followed right after

Still humming the deathly tune

The marauders stood silent

Awestruck watched the tyrant

As six hundred took their own lives

The army was victorious

Their victory was glorious

But none remained to be claimed as their prize