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In Ankara and Moscow,
the ground is crimson red ~
a carpet spread on fields once green.
Life’s fluid, like red gold,
flows as scarlet runoffs into Ottoman rivers –
lifestreams of Rossiyane and Turks
spilled from their inner oceans.
Their bones ~
lifeless as strings of dead fish,
litter seas once full of life.
The tears of fatherless children fill the Black Sea,
their futures blown away with fury
by eastern winds.

Jerusalem bleeds from both ends,
wrecking balls thrown into homes ~
toys for corpses in silent graves,
on fields crawling with poisonous snakes,
ready to strike and kill.

Bombs care not which breasts they rip babies from ~
babies cling to lifeless mothers,
suckling the last drops of milk.
Yet the blasts never falter,
snuffing life from the babies too.

Homes in Gaza are occupied by disaster.
Dark clouds of war cover their skies,
rains mixed with volcanic dust of missiles.
Bitterness is worshipped now as religion
on both sides of the divide,
where though blood runs the same red,
the colour of faces matters more
when bombs rain upon their homes.

Again in Tehran, bombs fall as flying storms
upon homes,
raging fire sweeping streets
like a plunderer in the night ~
chasing orphans into mangled alleys,
searching for parents under piles of dead bodies,
while dodging rollercoasters of bullets
spinning daily.

The UN is dumb to bombs,
its sole purpose to oppress ~
letting untouchables keep their nuclear weapons,
breathing down weaker necks to keep theirs away.
The powerful keep getting more powerful,
the weak keep getting weaker…
to stop the world from writing its obituary while still alive,
or so they claim.
Yet each day, the world keeps bleeding.
But who will unbind these fetid wounds,
or must we rot into our end?

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