On a canvas of virgin land,
The thrust of a demon,
Stained a thick red blot,
That will never dry,
Decades galloped by,
Leaving but a dusty trail,
A legacy of pain,
An honest gift of hatred,
Those mentors inspired us,
We learned the skill,
Though our crafts are unique,
For we have no tools,
Now, we create a masterpiece,
From bits of the Earth,
Miniature stones merge with sturdy helmets,
To compose an aesthetic mosaic,
A signature must conclude this effort,
A bullet proudly stamps its trademark,
To reward a Martyr eternal life,
And to add another tally to history,
No auctions for such art,
The price is instantly paid,
In a currency of flaming tears,
From a mother losing sanity,
Observers of such art,
Stride in the halls of the museum,
"How beautiful those works of art are,"
They add, "If only we had such talent.”
Courtesy of Albawaba reader: Bushra Abdel-Hafez - Jordan
