Three years in which I’ve daily felt
the traumas of a distant tribe,
an anguished howl where demons dwelt
across the knowings deep divide.
Three years further down the road, a devastated land.
Hyperbole aint strong enough to help us understand
the fractured hopes and twisted lies
the foul intent in peached disguise,
the zionistic fealty
defining what it means to be
a race of abject cruelty,
the worst of all humanity.
Oppression comes in many forms and layers up distorted norms
in outrage taking centre stage as pent-up feelings left the page.
Relentless in pursuit of harms, in vengeance manufactured storms
creating inculcated rage to fund a soldiers sordid wage.
Three years of seeing ways obscene, of trying to look away at times
barbarity and helplessness behind the genocidal crimes.
So what are we allowed to say and what will see us join a list
alongside pensioners who spoke with open palms and unclenched fist.
Like Margaret Owen, 94, arrested just a week ago
a barrister who fought a war and knew what she was fighting for.
Like my mate Chris who held a sign supporting those who hold a line
defending ancient palestine from those who push the will of Zion.
Three years later, lots more hatred adding to an open sore
ulcerated pain unending heads towards an evermore.
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