Poetry: Ashraf AboArafe

CARACAS speaks—and let the world beware:
She learned to laugh while tyrants choked on air.

She rose from storms that tried to claim her name,
But storms retreat when truth ignites its flame.

They whispered: “Trump has crowned himself the sun”—
A star of bluster… but a star for none.

He swings his threats like toys to shake the weak,
Yet trembles when the strong refuse to speak.

Tell Washington: Your empire’s cloak is torn,
Your gospel of democracy is worn.

You preach of freedom—yet your hands reveal
A hunger only empires learn to feel.

You lecture nations on what’s right or wrong,
While justice dies inside your endless song.

You hold the poor beneath your polished boot,
And call it order… call it “truth” to suit.

You play the savior in your own parade,
But masks crack open when the light is laid.

For Trump—your storms are loud, your threats are cheap,
You bark at mountains; mountains fall asleep.

You roar like thunder seeking fearful crowds,
But thunder fades when no one bows to clouds.

You call it power, this carnival you run,
But power flees the fool who thinks he’s won.

Your legacy? A trembling, hollow roar—
A circus no one’s buying anymore.

Caracas answers: We have seen your kind,
The kings who rule with ego—not with mind.

We’ve seen your wars, your hunger to control,
The grasping fingers reaching for the soul.

We’ve seen your smiles—those masks for darker schemes,
Your foreign aid that tastes of broken dreams.

And when you come with promises so sweet,
We smell the poison dripping at your feet.

So hear us now:
Your world of mirrors soon will crack,
For lies collapse when truth begins to speak back.

Your empire stumbles—arrogant and blind—
A giant rotting from its weakened mind.

Here stands Caracas—fire in her hand,
A rebel city no brute shall command.

And as the winds declare from sky to sand:
We mock your rage.
We break your chains.
We stand.