The Bomb Has No Eyes
The predators do not see innocence.
They do not see
the love that raised
that beautiful creature.
They see a feast.
The rest—insignificant.
All that is real
is a nagging hunger.
The bomb does not care
for architectural marvels—
cares even less
for children,
or hospitals
where doctors pour
their hearts into hands
already overextended.
Sentiment holds no weight
if blowing it apart
might silence
a rival.
Israel is the new species of hell—
a cruelty carved
from the reverse horseshoe
etched into every mirror they own.
They bought the media
with surplus value—
money soaked in workers’ blood,
profits dyed in dazzling colors
to distract and seduce.
Apples—so red,
so round—
with no taste,
no value.
The bomb does not feel
for the edifice
of souls packed tightly
into survival’s last corner—
shredded,
slaughtered,
silenced
behind robes
and rituals.
Behind the Zionist guitar,
there is no soul—
no song,
no echo
of shared pain,
no note
of sorrow
for kindergartens
crushed beneath tanks
on their way
to an empire
framed
with the skeletons
of children.
Their deafness
dumbfounds feeling.
Their blindness
blinds the world.
And humanity,
once again,
is buried beneath the rubble
of its own silence.
