I. Summer afternoon,
a blackbird sings its heart out;
sirens wailing loud.
II. The television blares-
I sit there nauseous,
an ice pack on my head.
III. Fields of golden death;
paddy rots, the sickle rusts,
Trident stands erect.
.
IV. Farmer, will your tears
be enough, for when they own
all of the water?
V. Run Faroukh, run!
Run in circles, because
hate never ends.
VI. Mountain made of ice-
it trickles down in droplets
that hiss on parched rocks.
VII. Today we are starved,
tomorrow we will be dead;
we are fed just lies.
VIII. I rejoice for them-
the poets at the gallows;
but I fear for us.
IX. What choice do we have?
Conscience, conscience! I don’t want
no blood on my hands.