Transit Poem

 

The way it happens proves too much

 

Russian weapons carved for a dead menace

sold to hungry Hezbollah

 

Borders get pierced

 

A regime firm as bone

takes in the Shiite mobs

 

An ayatollah fingers a final prayer bead

before the burnt fridges of Homs

 

This is called ash

That is called hole

 

In Aleppo a stalemate forks neighbors

feathered gunfire plays siege

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