For Sunday Scribblings, this week's prompt is hair. This poem was fueled by recent news events, as more and more young Muslims are persuaded by zealots to commit violent acts. Islam is being hijacked by extremists, while the true believers of the Islamic faith - including the guardians of Mecca - curiously remain silent. Why aren't they rising up in droves to protest these criminal acts, which clearly are forbidden in the Koran? Where are the strong, powerful voices defending Islam?
It's his twisted version of the hair shirt
that belt of explosives
strapped around his waist.
If it's detonated,
he's convinced he'll go straight to heaven
where young virgins await.
Why should he doubt it?
he's been told often enough:
his is a noble sacrifice.
At the madrassa, he recites his prayers
and waits for the chance
to prove his worthiness.
Martyr for a cause greater than himself,
unaware Islamic teachings manipulated
to serve beliefs of a few radicals.
The young recruit follows orders,
believing the mullah's assurance
a non-believer's blood doesn't count
and nothing else matters
but an Islamic state,
even if innocents must die
to realise this goal.
Such actions richly rewarded,
but where does it say this in the Koran?
Never mind if he can't find the passage;
the mullah promised and he's an educated man,
guiding him towards an early death
in the name of Allah.
Others must reclaim the true Islam
that's been hijacked by zealots.
A religion of tolerance and respect,
yet mosques over-run by bloodthirsty criminals
in an unholy alliance
charting their own sinister course,
inciting thousands of people
living in poverty, ignorance and oppression.
Address those three issues
and terrorism will be vanquished;
muezzins everywhere chanting prayers of peace.