The UK’s Guardian newspaper reports that Sodomy appears “depressed and demoralized in solitary confinement, spending his time writing poetry, tending a garden and reading the Quran.”
It is tragic to witness the horrific conditions to which the left’s hero is subjected. Some more detail:
Amin had little to report on Saddam’s poetry. “One of the poems is about George Bush, but I had no time to read it,” Amin said.
He reported that Saddam was being treated for high blood pressure and a chronic prostate infection, and was gaining weight after losing 11 pounds during a time when he resisted all fatty foods.
Saddam and other detainees get an MRE (meal ready to eat) breakfast, and hot food twice a day, Amin said. Dessert might include oranges, apples, pears or plums, but Saddam also likes American muffins and cookies, The Guardian quoted Amin as saying.
Saddam is not allowed newspapers, TV or radio, but has access to 145 books Ã¢â‚¬â€ mostly travel books and novels Ã¢â‚¬â€ donated by the Red Cross.
Amin said Saddam tends a garden during his daily three-hour exercise period.
“He is looking after a few bushes and shrubs and has even placed a circle of white stones around a small palm tree,” said Amin. “His apparent care for his surroundings is ironic when you think he was responsible for one of the biggest ecocides when he drained the southern marshes.”
Isn’t it sweet of the Red Crescent to donate books to Sodomy so that he doesn’t get too bored during his unjust imprisonment. Too bad they can’t arrange for his sons to come back from the dead to pay him a visit.
One of Six Meat Buffet’s Baghdad correspondents has just sent me a message – he was able to rummage through the trash bins behind the prison where Sodomy is being held and discovered one of Sodomy’s poems. I am reprinting it here without permission.
why, why am i imprisoned?
tell me, tell me, O beautiful gardenia
confined in this bleak garden of eden
only because i dare pray to allah!
O gardenia, i seek solace in you
so rare so alive with splendour, yet still fragile
fragile like the infants i poisoned
as their infidel parents wept closeby
i have done nothing!
O gardenia, so full of elegance
full… full like the mass graves
with the remains of a thousand families
still i am persecuted for what i know not!
with only the tender arms of the red crescent
to shield me from the desolate cold
with only hot meals and fresh fruits to sustain me
fruit filled with juice
juice… juice like the fluids that flowed
from the wood chippers in which i shoved my subjects
as their relations recoiled in horror
what have i done to deserve this!
I thought poetry was supposed to rhyme. Well, to each his own I guess.