Poetry: Ashraf AboArafe
The devil is of us… born from a bloodline that knows blood more than it ever knew water,
A head where night nests with no dawn,
A wolf’s face that performs its ablution in oil before praying over the corpses of the poor.
He rose… he reigned… he lingered—
A poisoned bullet in the hand of the Zionist–American hegemony,
Killing serenity in the East now lost,
And in Africa, still searching for her first name
Before she is swallowed by merchants of ruin.
What does the silence of the regional and global order mean?
Could it be that night has conspired with night?
That justice is shackled in corridors
Only torturers and their shadows know?
With his wealth he hired mercenary ink to write the unwriteable,
Ideas sold like worn shoes on sidewalks,
Politicians echoing only what is dictated,
Athletes running after hollow glory
While peoples run after a morsel
That once was a right… and is now a dream.
He burns peace,
Steals wealth from the dragons of hunger,
And sows nightmares in fields once fertile,
Until the Middle East became a map of dread
Drawn to fit the nightmares of Zion—
“From the Nile to the Euphrates.”
Yesterday:
He… She… They…
And They — the women who bore chests weighed with loss and hunger,
Mothers whose only embrace was the wall of night,
And the homeland bleeding — its hope coagulated.
Today:
You… You (fem.)… You all… You (women):
You who carried mountains of patience on fragile shoulders,
Salt of tears and banners of waiting,
The final rope of salvation when men drown in speeches,
When rulers are seduced by a gold that never fills,
And sages are silenced by sword and microphone.
Tomorrow:
I… and We —
Remnants of a homeland stabbed beyond counting,
Yet the first shadows of victory
When night finally bows to dawn.
And all pronouns — absent, addressed, and speaking —
Lift their pain to the heavens,
To the Avenger, the Almighty,
Who delays… but never neglects,
Whispering:
O God… we testify against them to You. 🤲
