My own machinery, un-primed and laying dormant, never forged a weapon such as this - as if by magic, or better yet by instinct to move toward, hammered out of bloody steel for me to wield - a sword. Where before I’d lay awake and myself torment over every moment lost, imagined kiss, I now with open eyes and bleeding heart march forward to deliver to a princess far away my foreign word. Before I feared there was no path to follow, no course from ages past been written, mapped or charted. This blade I hold, this grip that tightens, Both lay the path itself and darkness lightens. Egypt - of all places! - a land of history hardly hollow, Equipped, of all things, with this dagger I have started, you might say, a war. But do not whisper, do not pray unto the gods, until I lay my sword before you, and proudly curse the odds.
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Seems this poem might have been in the works for a while, or is a current reflection. I like it, especially the third stanza.
Egypt is building a new tiny open air prison for the Palestinians right now. I was trying to place that, but I’m not sure who holds the sword.