Hadi Atallah

Not like a great jackrabbit disturbed in his shade,

With little tears, the fallen men could see in his mind;

Here into the glory, little pools of glistening life reside 

A grip of the bare stone with his eyes, what laid

Is the trudged past of burning, and he made

Malignant growths. From their clouds of lies

Effects of deceptive stings; traps set in his eyes

Feed rage blowing a little flame with growing blame.

“These men will not profit beyond their salaries!” cries he

With good thought. “Have them show aggressiveness and whores,

Their pure nervousness huddling around yearning to break free,

While the rest of their wretched faces resent our religious lore.

Blame me, the whispers, cusses and arrogance large to see,

I examine them carefully pragmatically waiting for more!”