Snare

Remembering 7 October 2023

I

In Genesis, Abraham’s faith burned as a molten star—

Three pyres in Baal’s twilight, beacons in obsidian dark.

From Ur’s ziggurats to Canaan’s dunes, destiny not far—

Three cosmic arcs, his covenant leaves its ineffable mark.

Shackled in Egypt’s grasp, heaven’s marvels they beheld—

Liberty bought with plagues, and Sinai’s thunderous roars.

To Canaan’s soil, their promised Eden, destiny compelled—

Found not milk and honey, but spears, blood, and wars.

Assyrian storms descended, kingdom’s textiles to tear—

In Babylon’s firm grip, their sorrow by the rivers worn.

Persia’s grace restored them; Temple stones anew declare—

Roman iron, however, crushed their jubilant psalms torn.

Scattered seeds by capricious winds, in Holocaust confined—

Yet ancestral roots clung fast to shifting, sandy base.

Through century’s gale, their spirit unsevered, a history defined—

Mosaic of courage, in the sacred palm, their place.

In Zion reclaimed, fresh blossoms with the earth conspire—

Yet ancient sorrows cast long, inescapable, haunting shades.

Conflict’s dew still dampens each nascent morning’s fire—

And divine vigil, like bedrock, never dismays or fades.

Through history’s storm, navigated by celestial spheres—

Each soul a vessel on time’s unfathomable, tumultuous sea.

Heritage—a lighthouse, both beacon and birthright, clears—

Guiding them onward to their inevitable destiny.

In epochs’ ebb and flow, their essence eternally stays—

Tapestry woven from golden threads of joy and sorrow’s woe.

Each generation its hues contributes, in sacred code allays—

Sephirot transformed, yet roots in earth steadfastly grow.

Empires fade, cultures blend; their essence stands alone—

A lighthouse in the fog, a constant in the disarray.

Crucible of trials past fortifies each monolithic stone—

A character, from blood and tears, not easily led astray.

Onward they stride, not to an end but toward ever-widening skies—

A tribute to pioneers who carved their stone to path.

To hopes not fully known, their spirits daringly rise—

Guided by faith as sure, as Abraham’s ancient pact.

So, the river courses on, through lands both bleak and grand,

Each soul a vessel, guided by destiny’s cosmic thread.

Though the journey’s map unfolds in ways they’ve yet to understand—

In the promises written by the Eternal, their trust is steadily led.

The globe spins on, its axis tilted by both love and grief,

Their sense of purpose outlasting fleeting years.

Anvil of existence moulds their core’s eternal belief—

A character in the furnace shaped, of both their laughter and their tears.

Tempo of existence beats with hearts in harmonious bloom,

Old wounds healed in time’s forgiving womb.

From scattered shards, a unity—a phoenix in the gloom,

Ever rising from history’s dim and darkened room.

Their roots stretch out to distant lands, yet in sacred source converge,

Canvases of myriad hues, woven from a single thread.

Fire of their identity through ages does not purge—

A flame that not even time’s vast ocean can be led to shed.

Empires crumble, rise anew; their mission stands divine,

Constant in a shifting world, a melody in a cacophony.

Through trials and tribulations, their essence they refine—

A symphony composed of voices, disparate yet harmoniously.

Onward they march, not to finality, but toward ever-expanding scopes,

Each step a note in the grand symphony their history composes.

Bound by lineage, driven by heart, their trajectory ever hopes—

Steered by covenants as ageless as supposed.

In memory of their past, a tale of epochs finely spun,

History’s not a closed book; its ink forever flows.

From ancestral pain to current rage, the thread remains undone—

Segue into today’s strife, from ancient roots to modern woes.

II

In viper’s webs of deception, youth’s purity to pyres sent—

A carnage so irreverent, it quenched the sun’s radiant light.

A stygian torrent, raven-winged, eclipsing astral firmament,

Devoured the sinless, ages twined, in war’s insatiable appetite.

By paradox ensnared, the prey, transformed with sharpened maw,

From victims to persecutors, destiny’s scythe they wield.

Fragile blooms of life disrupted, innocence sundered by cruel law,

Mirrors once of naiveté, now forge triangulated fields.

Against despot’s gales, once feeble guards, their hands now cast a tempest red,

Where vessels of compassion hindered in the surge.

Promises like tapers snuffed by gusts of rage and dread,

In embroidering, where luminous threads to shadow blur.

Retribution’s mantra, cosmic scales to eternal imbalance swayed—

Each morn’ unfurls obsidian scrolls, a fatal dance forever staged.

Justice sacrificed, more souls into abysmal chasms weighed,

Life’s negation—empty triumph, tongues turned to hangman, caged.

Mothers in lament enshrouded, fathers melting fury bear,

Revenge’s dirge an unending choir, sorrow’s symphony declared.

In communal hearth, seeds of discord sown in vitriolic air,

Differences not trivial, through distorting lens now flared.

Torrents of enmity unleashed, quenching Hope’s last flicker,

Bridges to compassion razed in bitter, barren silt.

Legacy of anguish, time’s unforgiving crucible, ever thicker,

Tender minds in ancestral grip, the loom of dread is built.

Descendants bear the scar of hate, legacy in sorrow soaked,

A spinning wheel of malice, intricacies by their hands invoked.

A trap’s transformation, from puppet to puppeteer, unspoken,

Revenge the gyre eternal, spirals of terror forever yoked.

Spectres of forsaken youth haunt terrains beyond our ken,

Stern admonitions from beyond—hate’s trap ensnares all men.

Compassion’s seeds in barren fields give way to strife’s harsh glen,

Mechanised ballets of destruction mark the metronome of sin.

Within labyrinthine tunnels, wrought from vengeful bricks arrayed,

Each turn a cul-de-sac of doom, steps toward oblivion made.

Snare internalised, a self-sustained maze where angels are afraid,

Cycle of vengeance and remorse, an infernal promenade.

In crucible’s oppressive hold, malice alloyed and reborn,

Forge where innocence is lost, leaving only bitterness to mourn.

Snare, an heirloom of despair, in chains of sorrow worn,

Unbroken lineage, a narrative from living to unborn.

On this proscenium of despair, roles in tragic flux adhere,

Victim and malefactor meld in this sorrowful premiere.

Snare—the setting for a loop of boundless tragedy and fear,

Script inked in sanguine tears, complexities we cannot clear.

In vista’s desolate expanse, the horizon ever grey,

A barren tableau where dawn is mute, and only nightmares have their say.

Snare—a mirage ever distant, receding with each day,

Phantoms of retribution, in perpetuity hold their sway.

In this whirlpool of despair, no solace left to find,

A carpet unravelled, woven threads that make us blind.

Snare—a vile design, etched by hands we’ve never known,

Hostages we remain, entombed in a maze of stone.

-=-

by Paul Wadey

The moral rights of the author have been asserted.