When you live as a nightingale in country.
And fall in love with a lioness of a city.
You met her in conference of poetry.
You give her flowers and sing for her beauty
She deals with the heart using knife and she has no pity.
When you praise the beauty of Hillary Clinton .
She calls you my good man or my sun.
You are my poet and greater than Lord Baron.
When you write a poem to a girl from USA or Japan
She will call you my kindest man.
This is our black fate
We are killed by our love.
And after murderering, she wears the clothes of a
I just ask the girls of the Arabs.
Where did you make your hearts?
Why did you make them from Iron?
All your systems are made from iron.
Even your eyes are made from the metal.
You live as sad machines wearing false kind dress.
You live as a murderer wearing gloves made from
The girls of the Arabs wearing shoes made from
the meat and blood of the poets.
Written by Abdellatif Ahmed Fouad.