Falluja

Through the graceful cones of your loud speakers, Prayers go out to Alla al Akhbar. And like a flag waving in a prophetic breeze, You are a blindfolded hostage weeping on your knees. In your fair root neighborhood of Shudada, Stryker vehicles crackle past your ancient walls, As tanks smash through deserted homes. And the endless stockpiles of artillery shells, The mortar rounds, rocket-propelled grenades, Electronics for making bombs, were simply small caches, Left by nomadic insurgents, cells long slipped away. But you, sweet holy city of Falluja, you will live on, For when the foreign snipers on your roofs are gone, You will live on as the city of mosques, city of graves.