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!
Seems this poem might have been in the works for a while, or is a current reflection. I like it, especially the third stanza.
It’s actually old, which probably makes more sense
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.