Patrick Tombola
By
Ahmad Al-khatat
Flooding in Aleppo
The coming and
Unborn history will
Turn eyes blind,
From the disaster
Flooding in Aleppo.
Daily floods everywhere,
Often death purpose,
Nightly dreams disappear,
Regular flying spirits,
UN remains reticent.
Every single home,
Flood of tears,
From youthful and
Aged widows,
By photo albums.
In damaged streets,
Flood of blood,
Of innocent angels,
From car bombs,
From flying rockets.
The blue sky
Becomes the clouds,
And rain warmly,
Peace birds fly,
To pray mercies.
Red in exile,
States as warning,
Red in Syria,
Assigned as death,
Leaders keep ignoring.
The green soil
Flood of skeletons,
From mass graves,
Of unknown fighters,
With white flags.
One dictator leader,
Smiles with fears,
Mothers still weep,
Tears flood hopes,
Tanks kill everybody.
Trump sends me back home
My father once said to my childhood age,
In this great land of America your dreams
Will become real and not miserable like I.
Years later my father is now a grandfather,
I am working as hard as he used to before,
Except I learnt how to be more an American man.
Elections bring sorrows to my thoughts,
It makes my spirit poor then my knowledge,
Weak and uncertain about most of my belief.
God creates most of the humans equally,
Then why those humans aren’t equal to me,
Its because my skin color isn’t of fall leaves.
The history class should be business class,
The dictionary yearly prints new words to us,
The natives, and black color skin aren’t deleted.
Trump wants to send me back home,
After I grew my heart to be an American dude,
I lost my faith and worked in the bloody army.
Trump wants to send my bro home,
His brother died on the dusty border for him,
He wanted a life far from long fights and drugs.
We will see who will build the wall?
Your supporters with fake skin color
And unrealistic names build it with regrets.
Yes, You are a Terrorist
This life has never
Changed for a bit,
Gadgets devices win
Over manual thinking,
Immigrants’ tales aren’t
Lies from social network.
Flying bombs in the day;
And fire works in the night.
Robot soldiers shoot down,
Anyone with a brave heart.
One survivor can’t be a zombie,
But he could a deadly terrorist.
Tears and blood are one river,
It tastes the honor of all martyrs.
Bullets and bombs are the fighters,
They don’t weep nor speak a word.
Grand parents and single parents,
Orphans and kids in refugee camps.
They sleep with priceless blankets,
Not warm, windy, rainy, and snowy.
The devil is between the weakness,
Not safe, rape, stealing, and hunger.
Exile accepts them for a better living,
They learn the language, and work hard.
They build one middle class family,
No more hopes to go to homeland.
Their kids are born and love his freedom,
Till one of them becomes responsible.
Because of your own color?
Because of your own name?
Because of your own beliefs?
Opus and congratulations friend,
Unfortunately, you are a terrorist.
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