"ETHNOCRACY: THE BETRAYAL OF DEMOCRACY"
(A Cosmic Poem of Justice and Revolt)
For Palestine
The stars themselves now weep in fiery rhyme,
As Zion's shadow stains the halls of time.
Not mere crime—but cosmic blasphemy,
A rupture in the womb of destiny.
The universe, in silence, holds its breath,
And watches man enact his second death.
When babes are starved by legislative hand,
This is no state—this is hell’s own land.
Before the court of aeons, we indict:
"You stole not just the soil—but sacred right.
You murdered truth, then dressed your lies in gold,
And sold the world a dogma, cruel and cold."
The verdict hums through every atom’s core—
What you have built, the tides of time abhor.
Tanks may crush the flesh, but never will,
For stones outlive the empires that they kill.
You wield the bomb, but we—eternal art,
The unbroken beat of the human heart.
Each wall you raise becomes your prison gate,
Each checkpoint marks the weight of heaven’s hate.
Divine geometry cannot be cheated—
The oppressed shall rise, the usurpers, defeated.
You call "bravery"—the jet that bombs a child,
"Divine right"—the theft of homes defiled.
But hark! The hammer of the gods draws near,
To shatter every myth you hold dear.
If all states acted as your regime does,
The earth would drown in blood—because it was.
Your creed’s not evil—worse—it’s insane,
A death cult chanting "Never Again."
No lie can hide when bones block out the sun,
No spin can mask what you have done.
The colonizer’s end is always thus—
His greatest strength becomes his deathly fuss.
Palestine is, as gravity must be,
No force can bend eternal equity.
To war on her is war on cosmic breath—
And all who wage it, court their own death.
Thesis: "A land without its men."
Antithesis: "We rise again."
Synthesis: "Your dying gasp,
As history snaps your spine at last."
By Kant’s stern code, by Marx’s burning scroll,
By Nietzsche’s whip, by Rumi’s soul,
By every light that thought has hurled—
You stand condemned before the world.
The philosophers of old could but debate,
While tyrants gorged on fear and hate.
No more. Now truth is not a plea—
It is the storm, the sword, the sea.
The children’s blood inks history’s page,
Their screams compose the final age.
And when the last false idol falls,
The stones will sing—and you the walls.
Ethnocracy—your name’s a jest,
Democracy’s corpse in a thief’s vest.
But hark! The east now gleams so bright—
Your night must break before our light.
Whalid Safodien
The Feather Pen
