when there is no more hair left to raze

By | 1 February 2019

drones whoosh past adobe towers.
they are black as some
villagers’ hair,
shining like freedom.
drones serve daily reminders
of a justice
the occupied are alien to.

militaries are ushered
by silky yarns of missiles to
tear hair off mothers
like trees off the land,
to pluck follicles of pleas
from the root upward.
they are at ease pinpointing,
precisely jabbing,
to swirl pools of blood
on mother earth’s scalp
and to leave civilians
pearling at the bottom,
invisible to the capital eye.

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