Written when ISIS was on the crest and a giggle of British schoolgirls were brainwashed on twitter.
The Rubaiyat of Zarah
The Rubaiyat of Zarah
Only peace and no recrimination
in the garden of my destination.
Immortal youths will serve and comfort me
in my fiery final incarnation.
Just a single-minded slave of Allah
never destined for the field of valour
till fate decreed for me a path unplanned
into the Hall of Martyrs, Inshallah!
Wise twitter-sirens of the Caliphate
send thoughts that pierce my mind – then detonate!
“Think! Will our next Saladin be your son?
Which humble bride will Allah nominate?”
All cyberspace is full of such bold thought.
“Heads full of maths and science come to nought.
What good is there in studying the earth
when Allah’s word is all that should be sought?
The West, beguiled by Satan, lost its way.
When fashion dazzles girls they go astray.
Forgetting God they lose their pride in self,
while Paradise is just for those who pray.
It’s woman’s blessed realm to operate
behind a veil where men will venerate
and pay them due respect. When sexes switch
their roles, societies disintegrate.
Your place is here in our Islamic State
to be a bride and brave jihadi’s mate.
Past seventeen a girl is deemed too old
so flee your bonds before it is too late.
Sister, for you we have a simple plan,
haste to your wedding day as fast you can.
Be chaste! Then fast and pray your daily five.
Breed many Muslim martyrs with your man.”
So to Mosul, in answer to the call
I came in niqab, covered overall,
to be settled in the house where future
brides are, by imams, taught and held in thrall.
“All disbelievers carry Allah’s curse.
It says so in the Qur’an’s holy verse.
Then, Slay them where you find them, says the book.
They are the fiends of Satan and perverse.
Their armies now are at our very gate
and raining bombs down on our Holy State,
but we don’t fear the wicked infidel,
for Allah’s sons will smite them down in hate."
Then, suddenly, a fatwa is proclaimed.
A missile into London will be aimed.
Disguised, a girl will travel as a bomb.
At morning call our martyr will be named.
All day we sisters panic sweat and quake.
At night we cry and pray and lie awake.
Which girl, a would-be bride, will have to die?
The imam says, “Be brave for Islam’s sake.”
At dawn the imam points a hand at me
and shakes his head in answer to my plea.
“You’re Allah’s choice, stand tall and show your pride.”
But all I feel is terror’s urge to flee.
Then I am led away and told my youth
is lacking in the facts of holy truth.
I must absorb the lessons of the book
and then go forth as Islam’s sabre-tooth.
“Fighting is obligatory for you.
It tells you so in Surah number two.
On disbelievers Allah puts a curse,
so kill the Christian and wicked Jew.
Make war on them till Islam is supreme.
These facts are not a foolish imam’s dream.
You’ll read them all in Surahs two to nine.
We lovers of the book work as a team.
Now off to Turkey where you melt away
as loving brothers speed you on your way
and teach how best to detonate the bomb
when you appear in London on the day."
Convinced that this is where my future lies
I hug my friends in tearful fond goodbyes
because the imam’s lessons taught me that
Islam’s success must feed on Kafir’s cries.
At last I saunter through the vast arcade
where filth and Satan’s spawn are on parade.
“Kill and be killed for Islam and it’s cause.”
And my reward? “A gown of golden braid!”
“Make war on infidels,” true Muslims yell.
“Be harsh, for they are vile and come from hell.”
The girl who ran away is now a bomb.
Fearless! Inspired by Islam’s mighty spell.
I pray and feel the bomb-belt hug my flesh
a child asleep in mother's niqab creche.
One flick will blast these Kafirs back to hell
while I, in paradise, start life afresh.