A long long time ago before the end of time had taken away man’s thirst for knowledge and development (as well as that much aligned word, progress), a big statue of a little boy adorned the centre of the Piazza del Shaheed, in the ancient Spanish town of Al Ahmaq.
This statue had stood for hundreds of years (would have been four hundred in 2016 or 2019, opinion is divided), and though precious little of what must have been its original form remained intact, the statue had stood as a symbol of courage and honour and the preferrred target of accuracy-seeking pigeons keen to cement a relationship with the young hero-prince, whose legends of bravery would fill a hundred volumes of odious odery to the shan-o-shaukat of the hero of Zero’stan (as this enclave was called in reference to its zero-tolerance approach to acts of terrorism). The statue was revered by generations of young and old caballeros with exotic names like Abu Hamza, Gaius Bakr Siddiqui, Hassan Hussein Shaheeduddin El Cid and Cato Ibn Clouseau, which were passed down generation to generation, names skipping lineage by one or a maximum of two generations.
On the run from Torquemada’s secret polit-bureau of buried pasts,
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3 comments:
Hi Kinkminos, nice to meet you :) First of all, thank you for your comment on my blog. It's been a while since a comment has gotten me to think a bit more :) Your blog(s) are a very interesting read indeed. You style is quite catchy.
alina thanx for dropping by. hope you do so more often. comments of (almost) any nature are always welcome.
its so reassuring to get a comment. Ofcourse not being selective helps!
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