You reek of red...
the military bugles sing in crimson,
and the peasants chant, their song of scorched earth...
The leftists left no leaf unraped;
the rightists, no faces, unravished,
an aura of blood floats over the wounds of your weeping earth
and yet your spirit stands erect…
Ah Fallujah! Mother of the ghost warriors
Still-born in a boot-mutilated masjid…kicking and screaming for another life…to come out untouched…
The skies spit back at your pale perpetrators…
The green has been stolen from your tear-rotting cheeks and flung high from your date palms…
into your fast-drying womb, but its too late…
Your virginity was fractured,
with the cry of the first bird that lost its wings to a false freedom…
Rise…now, and slowly God will seek your fingers…
The sun has risen; it’s his call for you to come back to life…
Rage...again...and again.
