Chant Poem by Michael Cayley

A chant rises, a chant falls
under hard red sun
in the rituals of death.

The statues are broken, the cuneiformed gates
lie smashed on sand. Where a caliph strolled
disguised in the cool evening
to learn what his people really felt,
families whisper in the dark
behind bullet-pocked walls.

Through a parched land
a foreign army rumbles in fear,
the twin rivers murmur over fractured bodies.

A draped coffin flown to a far country
shadowed by rain
slow-marches on khaki shoulders
while robed choirboys chant
softly in scarlet.