Souk

Within the alleyways lay death. The burdened bureaucrats on their lunch break lounge in front of an orange stand ignoring the masked face within the burnoose snaking through the stalls. Frankincense sticks and coffee beans purfume the tumultuous aisles as the figure moves the belt loop toward martyrdom. Heavenly maidens await this jihad ghost while figs and pomegranates fly through the air and televisions show bloody faces. When will it end ... this mayhem, this obscene use of beings meant to dance and sing, paint and create rather than obliterate in plastic.