When a flutist such as Pied Piper
Plays a woodwind instrument
Rodents and children would queue and march
To his irresistible melodies
Just like the contemporary climate of lip-hurled hatred
Where some hear the euphonious beauty
Of a flutist in embouchure
Like in Beethoven’s Fidelio – her third overture ‘Leonora’.
On boulevards of Levant – a modern day Hamelin
There are creatures who line up inside souks
For a damascene conversion
After all isn’t terrorism the modern bubonic plague
And terror, like the skin that turns sable
With an infection of Yersinia pestis
An abysmal black death.