And this thrice shorn unto the death cult,
That strange crusader castle, the azure Flag
Of Zion that spawned the kiss of a baleful
Shroud, unwept the venomous tree, a sword
Wrapped in an olive branch raining doom on
The defenseless. And this thrice bore unto
The heathen: a youthful widow sobs amidst
The ruins of her home, cradling her lifeless
Daughter, with naught to offer solace except
The sirens and the rain. Settlers stalk the fields
Of Palestine prowling for their prey – with rifles,
Bats, and knives – their eyes devoid of reason,
Their cruelty insatiable. A terrified family of
Twenty attempts to flee the looming thunder,
Only to be mowed down every one, their songs
And gentle laughter evanescing in the haze –
A fixed-wing hunter departs, to cleave black
Blood on windswept sands. Zionist soldiers des-
Ecrate a home upon the dawning, fracturing
The sacred hearth, the father having a seizure
From the unendurable stress – it would be his
Last. More critically injured are urgently rushed
To Al-Shifa – this time transported in the hold
Of a squalid dump truck – their shattered broken
Bodies placed on the floor due to lack of beds,
As groans of tortured innocents resound upon
The brain. And all about these ghastly scenes
Of unimaginable horror: the madman openly
Clamoring for more violence, insisting that the
Ravenous oppressor is the oppressed – those
Who lost their minds beneath Herzl’s shadow,
They who tossed their souls unto a sea of fire