My Wife Is Clad in Cloth From Head to Foot My wife is clad in cloth from head to foot. How deep her eyes, how vast and sane her eyes. As we leave, I drink her clear brown eyes Then she walks behind me by a foot. The buggy that she pushes is top stock. We bought it at the best store in the town. Our son sits in it as a throne, his crown Invisible, so worldly folk won’t mock. My wife is dutiful with no compare. She is my wife and I’m the head at home. The sun and rain gleam from our buggy's chrome. Our son's face shines, his mother takes good care. When her pure skin is shown, my body's roused. My wife is beautiful beyond compare. And though aroused, my heart can see her there, My wife, my soul mate, woman whom I've housed. Western women walk the naked streets Part-robed with skin displayed like butcher's meat Or sweet meats on a plate, an open treat: It causes me dismay, my hardship beats. I know of men in twister groups like gales Who phone round when they lift a Western girl Whose family's not enclosed her like a pearl, Have let her stroll alone the paths of males. They take her, token of the infidel, Of unbelievers to be conquered, won. They show the ending battle has begun When men will walk to Heaven or in Hell. Muhammad, our Great Prophet, Peace to Him, Married his friend’s daughter, nine years old. All Muslim men can do so, it’s foretold, For Islam’s timeless truth is not a whim. And if we’re ‘just’, four wives can be our own To plough each like a field, have babies grow. Throughout the world submissive seed must sow, Each single clod of Man be Islam’s clone. So says our Great Qur’an and our Hadith And infidels can’t mew that we abuse For then they’re filth like faeces, dogs, and Jews, And this is Allah’s code – what’s underneath. Muhammad, Peace to Him, had bones and teeth, Both action and belief for all Mankind. If one of you reads else, we’ll make you blind. It’s writ in His Qur’an and our Hadith. And at the End of Days all’s good; all’s nice; All non-Islam then stops; Jizyah as well; All true belief’s at peace; all’s fine; all’s well: And good men enter virgin Paradise. U.K. Citizen Written about previously tortured Chinese Falun Gong practitioners I know who have made new homes away from the Chinese Communist regime Where she’s come from’s where she’ll go to ____________when the Persecution’s done. She’s settled here, her second home, ____________first ring of respite on the run. Though forced to change the way she dresses, looks, ____________her language, and her name, She’s found new friends, connected roots, ____________is shaking off the clamps of blame. Most bruises healed; some scars still show; ____________she covers up with tops and skirts. It’s good to walk and not be stared at, ____________sit and not be clenched by hurts. Good makeup helps, and well-placed scarves ____________adapted to the Western style; Though getting angles right, concealing marks with movements, ____________took a while. There’ll be no grandstand jeers, nor gloating, ____________when the Evil Party falls. No forced return to torture rooms, ____________blood memories on beaten walls. But she will seek out relatives, ____________associates, and friends alive. Such searching dangles sentimental hooks ____________as some will not survive. Her homeland’s bilged, ballooned in super structure, ____________false commercial size, And this she’ll help reshape, rebuild, ____________put right its morals, and stay wise. Damian Robin is a writer and editor living in the United Kingdom.