The muezzin is in the know
while I’m busy on the floor,
fingers tracing tiles of dusted mosaic.
Across the market square, Sebastian sells arrows
to the Huns, while mongrel whores
snap at scraps of greasy meat.
On solid ground, one man
peddles the holy word, while above,
another cries out to no avail.
From on high, the voice calls,
pulls me from the fray to come pray
though I opt out. I trace
another tile and smile while
far beyond the scope of my Elijahic vision
Mohammed crouches on the rock
burbling admonitions to his lambs.
I see Sebastian peddle away.
Chew a bit of mutton and wait
for the service to end,
and about me all is silent
as, upon the minaret, the figure rests.
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