Along the mighty Tigris in Iraq,
There is a section where the river's track
Bends slightly eastward towards a tribute stream
The Little Zab. Majestic and supreme
It swells in volume and departs the scope
Of this account of violence and hope.
For westward from the confluence twenty miles
Are grouped a thousand simple domiciles,
That cluster 'round a central village square
Accentuated by a mosque most fair.
The moonlight bathes it in a wondrous glow
That lends its surfaces a hint of snow,
And oft at dawn or when the sun would set
The light reflecting off the minaret
Inspires the ones that hear the loud
muezzin
Whose summons rings across
Salahad Din
To call the faithful worshipers to prayer.
The venue of our story centers there
And from this place no farther will diverge
Than where the Little Zab and Tigris merge.
