Those rich metaphors drawn from the sky and sea
Rich funereal language, baptism, burial and birth,
Blossom and harvest, the wise ones, Witan’s children.
The lips of children sing
This life is not enough.

Smoke over Mosul. Mosul’s churches where once
The Jacobite heart of Christian belief was celebrated
Are now slave markets for Daesh barbarians.
Children hide amongst the ruins of Nineveh,
Run along the same back paths and alleys
that the Jews took to their synagogue
Which had been there since the Prophet Zoroaster
3500 years ago. 

Today Zoroaster’s sons and daughters
Are buried all around Mosul.
These Yezedi and Assyrian dead are a vestige
Of a different way. On them
Those Salafist-devils sought to satiate their sin.

Trace the infected stream back to its source
This nest of vipers
Of Wahhabism. Salafist Saudi Arabia.
Look! You’ll find it there.
These enemies of Voltaire
Contaminate the very air.