To call it a fairytale
our story needs a Prince.
He needs to be young,
reasonably handsome
and above all good of heart.
We need to match him
against the evil Vizir
in his dark cloak,
high hat, the old man,
the usurper of the throne.
Even though, in the past,
these two would have sufficed,
in our age of entertainment
we need a sultry victim too,
someone who deserve more.
She will need a name
to evoke her physique,
her white skin, or golden hair,
an avid object of desire
in our subconscious core.
For lack of imagination
let’s call her Iran, since
we’re always fussing over
her future, not her past.
And she is worthy, not?
She toils alone, it’s hard.
The prince is in a faraway land.
The Vizir has won, the decor
well, you can imagine the decor.
Her clothes are all torn.
But this being real life,
it has been a long time.
The prince drives his Porsche
aimlessly around,
sapped in his life of ease.
He has realized that Magic
is stronger than Man,
is stranger than Love,
and can only be fought
with what he doesn’t understand.
He realizes that he is just
another expendable pawn,
almost like a slave, or a leaf
Bobbing up and down
at the whim of another wave.
He isn’t the one
“that in the day of war
you see another bloody head
trampled on the ground”.
Or is he? In honour?
Jam11
