Poetry: Ashraf AboArafe
They planted puppets, hollow, bound to fall,
And schemed betrayal, whispering through the hall.
They sold the Arab soul for fleeting gold,
And pawned our history, sacred, proud, and old.
Their wealth—like poison—flows across our land,
Corrupting hearts with bribes from gilded hand.
From Egypt’s Nile to Syria’s wounded plains,
To Yemen’s grief, where sorrow still remains.
In Libya’s sands the bleeding wound grew wide,
While Syria burned, her veins torn open, cried.
And Iraq’s cities mourn with endless pain,
Preyed on by palace wolves who leave their stain.
They mocked at Palestine in open light,
Applauding tyrants, cheering wrong as right.
With every despot’s hand they chose to side,
Dreaming the truth and justice might subside.
Yet still within the people lives a flame,
A dignity no treachery can tame.
Forever shall our nations rise, withstand,
Though wolves may cloak themselves in lambskin grand.
