Poetry: Ashraf AboArafe
The lands have boiled, as if a fire crowns the sky,
The sun screams loud, with burning rays on high.
The winds lash hard against a silent day,
While people wander, lost in grief’s decay.
O Egypt! What is this inferno on your ground?
Has your own climate turned to tyranny profound?
Or is it Gaza’s tears, alone and raw,
That rouse the fury of creation’s law?
Where are those who wept for every starving child,
When dawn is chained, and loaves are now defiled?
They said: “Aid will come—but only when
Her pride is crushed, her secret drowned by men.”
O wonder! Bread itself is now enslaved,
By tyrants’ hands, who sell the faith they waived.
The weather rages—not from heat alone,
But from man’s fire, sins the earth has known.
They broke their vows, betrayed the code of right,
In times where souls are sold to endless blight.
You ruined earth, once lush and green with grace,
Now turned to ash, a barren, wasted place.
Your factories birth poisons in the fruit,
A slow disaster with a silent root.
Forgot you life’s a trust, a sacred flame,
Not bought, not owned, nor traded in a name.
O weather, roar! We know our guilt, our fall,
We bow, confessing sins within the pall.
Perhaps a Mahdi will one day appear,
To breathe new life, to make the earth re-clear.
And Jesus come, with peace upon his breath,
To bring down “Netanyahu”—the spawn of death.
