19. Ode to the Dictators’ Ruling
By JH Sayyar
1
Thou thronged Will, thou solitary god,
That sits high upon a blood-stained star,
In purple clad, with scepter made of rod,
And eyes that glitter like the scimitar
What charm does hold over mortal soul and limb
That men, like bees, swarm round thy shadow grim?
2
Thy courts are decked with trophies of despair,
With broken lyres and lips that dared to sing;
Thy breeze is thick with incense of the air
Where freedom burned on once a golden wing
The muses fly thee, tyrant! Yet thy name
Is carved on Time’s slow-chiseled scroll of shame
3
O Speak! What wine dost thou in secret sip?
What poison warms thy ever-thirsting lip?
Is it Ambition's draught or Envy’s kiss!
That makes thy sleep a midnight chrysalis
Of dreams wherein the stars obey thy nod,
And every heart is subject to thy rod?
4
Thine ears are deaf to music soft and free,
To shepherd’s pipe beneath the olive tree,
To rustling oaks, to lovers’ whispered vow
All must be still before thy furrowed brow.
And yet thy face is pale, thy hands do shake,
As if some ghost of judgment keeps you wake.
5
O would thou trade thy palace for a field,
Where daisies bloom and swords are never wield
Or dost thou love the clang of iron door,
And midnight knocks upon the silent floor?
Hast thou no tear for child or weeping wife,
Who pays in chains the coinage of thy life?
6
But lo! The hour will come when all thy guards
Shall fade like frost from out the morning yards,
When marble busts shall crumble in the square,
And none shall bow, and none shall even care.
Then shall thou stand, a name no longer sung,
A whisper faint upon the people’s tongue.
7
O Perish pomp! O crown of thorn pride!
That hides the man who cannot fate outride.
For Beauty shall return and song arise,
When tyranny like storm-cloud quits the skies
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