Last night, I dreamed of flowers beneath a golden sun.
Rivers flowed to the left, where rows of date palms
gave salute to the bees on their morning run.
Ever so gently did the breeze kiss the petals good morning.
With twelve steps to the right lay mushrooms
charged with the defense of a mulberry tree.
Silkworms nestled betwixt the leaves praised the Most-High,
as they spun their inner workings of fine brocade in mourning.
I'd ten beads in my pocket, but four on death row;
they shall spend their lives on a string, with naught but the flow
of a helpless giant's movements, amongst the shadows,
in a world brimming carelessly with the unknown.
And as for my letter:
Dear executioner:
I trust this reached you safely,
before the coming of the night.
I trust you read it faithfully,
without thought of sin or lie.
I trust you grasped the words between
the lines that caught your eye.
May God show you His mercy;
as they won't - nor will I.
