POETS AND RESISTANCE FIGHTERS

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poets are our commanders
they are maestro’s 

they conduct words 

he drops bombs on us because he wants every storyteller to surrender

to rip out their tongues and eyes whole

he is illiterate, he grasps at verse 

ignorant to words, he is without roots, without melody

indecipherable

he records our culture in his database, calls our poetry code words

pillages, rips up books and burns paper

he recruits the most expensive mercenaries from all over the globe

who like him, cannot unpack one instance of sound

our map is beyond their grasp

his envy rages, he aches to crush the unseen realm

he points his canons and shrieks, asks the device to scatter it, make it bits
where light where light where light where light where light

plays symphonic sounds

 
the words our commanders recite are etched upon us
calling out, bringing forth natures equanimity
and around the clock, beats the warmonger, he returns hungry again and again 

now threatening us with nuclear bombs

to catch our poets, hang our poets, lynch our poets, take all our sound

we birth poets 

tunnels underground

we breathe them open

they are our lungs, we are its people 

invaders cannot hear sounds 

Quds is the mount

he knows this, that is why it is his self proclaimed hunting ground

the half-eyed warmonger eats our children 

whole, in a single chomp, his nibble

he can't get enough and licks the blood from his fingers 

then rages, a tantrum when still he realizes he cannot hear the song

he hung my son, the poet
I gave birth to a daughter this morning 

she has already written her first sonnet
our village has memorized the entire chorus

elders close their eyes and nod 

our resistance fighters, bare feet sunk into this sand, our earth 

our lung, will emerge to cut the throat of this demon warmonger

storytellers poets artists will await the final hour, the musician

the trumpet's call