WARRIOR SOUL
A True Story
By John Herlihy

I
I once knew a man
Who possessed a warrior soul.
His name was Sheikh Mohsin;
His face had the air of an ancient scroll.
I admired him greatly;
He extended to me his trust.
He had a reputation to be saintly;
But he behaved as if he were dust.

II
One day a man came into the room;
The group sat in a circle talking among friends.
He shouted at the sheikh like a raving lunatic,
Hurling insults at the group who recoiled in panic.
I knew the man as an occasional friend;
He sometimes visited me at my home.
He told me he was a midshipman,
Who worked a cargo ship the world to roam.

III
The Sheikh sat in the middle of the circle,
As composed as an attentive cat.
No one else in the room uttered a sound;
We looked at each other restlessly where we sat.
The Sheikh was breathing evenly,
And gazed deeply into the distance far beyond.
A pigeon feather blew in through the open window,
And floated gently into our midst like a magic wand.

IV
The chaotic scene created by the madman continued,
When suddenly he saw me sitting in repose.
He quieted down when he realized he knew me,
Then kissed me like a child resting in a doze.
He then stood up and flailed wildly his arms,
Hurling unspeakable insults again at the Sheikh.
I took note of his tortured face and sweaty palms,
Acting out a sordid drama for someone else’s sake.

V
The Sheikh suddenly stood up in an attitude of command;
His piercing eyes looking directly at the wayward madman.
“Come with me,” he said and took the fellow’s hand,
Nodding for me to follow them into his private room.
We left our companions sitting on the floor wondering;
The madman and I, my former friend, followed the Sheikh.
Once in his study, we both sat like truant school children;
The madman awaited the attention of the Sheikh like a pilgrim.

VI
The Sheikh towered like a specter over the poor fellow,
Who continued to shout lewd insults and epithets into the air.
The warrior hurled sacred invocations into the face of the seaman,
Like an expert magician blowing streams of fire at a country fair.
At one point, the sheikh looked at me and spoke an aside:
“Look,” he said with effort, “the jinn are departing cockeyed.”
My seaman friend now cried like a child, no longer loud and bawdy.
The Sheikh whispered: “Jinn are unhappy to take leave of the body.”

VII
The troubled man heaved his shoulders with quiet sobbing.
Eventually, he came back to himself and calmed down.
I looked carefully into the four corners of the room;
I could see nothing of the jinn who disappeared outward bound.
It was an experience I would always remember to this day,
The day the jinn turned a friend into a donkey forced to bray.
My friend for his part finally turned in my direction and smiled,
Adding to my amazement: “Hello John, where have you been?”