BY AVELLINA BALESTRI

Along the crimson straight of war

Beads are clutched by daring men,

Some hailing Blessed Mary,

Some praising, “Ya Allah.”

Strange symphony of souls

Drawn forth unto their end…

Don Jaun is kneeling on the deck,

Repenting of his sinful ways,

Empty empty belly, swelling soul,

Like the wind behind the sails.

Perhaps he quotes Theresa,

Saint of the unconquered quill:

“God alone sufficeth.”

And Ali Pasha prostrates now,

Hair shirt scratching under robes,

And murmurs the motto of mortals:

“Hasbunallah”—Allah is enough for us.

Both men enjoyed the ladies—

Don Juan, that gallant blade,

With sword and satin, emperor’s son,

A wild youth who sowed his oats

In far too many fields.

And Ali Pasha, with sweetest voice,

The women said bewitched them,

A warrior and a muezzin’s son,

His ears attuned to greatness

God’s, and his own—glory craved.

Don Juan, too, yearned for the same.

Pleasure for honor, noble exchange—

Both men would perish or prevail.

Rome was the prize, imperial jewel

And a fisherman’s resting place

Who asked “Quo vadis, Domini?”

And promptly took his Master’s place

Upon the hill where stands the Church—

Saint Peter’s, Seat of Christendom.

The sultan wants her for a mosque,

Like Holy Wisdom from the east,

And Pasha is his chosen sword,

But Juan is Europe’s final knight.

The Pope has christened him anew

For the lady they love most of all

Sang lullabies in Bethlehem

And offers seven swords.

Juan and Pasha, lords of hosts,

Both are brutal, both are brave

Quashing rebels, conquering lands,

Slaughting strongholds, seizing slaves,

Leading where men will follow,

Sleeping in blood-stained clothes.

Both pray, now, for victory

And for mercy, to shield them,

At the reckoning, the day of doom,

When all will see their worth.

So they contest—ship unto ship,

Blood splurting, banners snapping

The Christ stretched wide across the sea

Blood flowing into water from the tree

Human and divine co-mingled,

Agony and ecstasy embraced.

Five wounds, ruby red and wondrous

And the maiden mild, shrouded in sky

Crowned with stars, the glint like steel

Flashing in the cannon fire,

So far from humble Nazareth

Where Gabriel cried, with eyes of flame:

“Full of grace, the Lord is with thee!”

Then see the attributes of God,

Stitched glorious and golden

Like honey on children’s tongues,

Taught to them since speech was learned:

“Our Master has beautiful names

And the whole affair returns to Him…”

What is this lofty spectacle?

The words and the Word

All torn and bleeding

Running like dying prayers

Down, down, into the sea…

And the Lady looking on,

Hearing the dying scream,

She who prays for us now

And at the hour of death…

Yes, the end comes for us all,

For Ali Pasha and Don Juan,

The first slain by a musket ball

The second, fever-stricken

Perhaps Pasha mumbled, faintly,

“La ilaha il allah”—There is no god but God

Before his head was hewn off

And raised upon a pike.

We know Juan cried, in agony,

“Jesu! Maria! Jesu! Maria!”

And then grew calm, kissed by grace,

And fell asleep, like a child.

We remember them both,

Victor and vanquished,

In history’s gory halls,

Yet know not where each have gone,

Nor know where we shall go.

Perhaps, in every manly heart,

There dwells a child who learned to prayer.

And when we shed our earthly cloaks,

The shirt of sorrow is revealed

And the child gains the victory.