The Distress Of Wreck Poem by Yousif Ibrahim Abubaker Abdalla

The curtain has been torn.
The security has been lost.
The whistle of oppression.
While the truism has been fading out of deceit.
Clutter and devastation meander the yards, Fright has chopped to defend the honor.
It has driven through dust storms and dozens of checkpoints restrained by jumpy fighters, Arriving at the ravaged city-state where the bloodshed eventuated, gunfire and mortars splashed into the valleys around chilling
Snipers huddle in the seaboard beneath a monstrous catwalk, blown up in battle, that downtrend into the river drones plummet over the rain, hunting for ground zero.
And an island at the bottom of the Nile,
A warplane brushed overhead and, across the Nile, an oily plume of smog rose spinning urban battle.
With the city in tumult, you slept in a dissipated roost, where a neighbor told of how a blast killed.
A noble city of glistening steep rises,
Oil wealth and five-star hotels lies in ashes.
Millions have fled.
A dearth snarl on the Nile Pushes.
The gold market is a graveyard of rubble and dog-eaten corpses were blown open in battle, its treasures now yellowing in the sun.
Gunnery shells glide over the Nile, splintering into sanatoriums and roofs.
The neck of the woods enshrines their dead outside their front gates.
In a hushed poverty ward, starving babies fight for life.
A skull and dropped vines were diffused shabby streets.
There's a chink in everything,
That's how the light gleans in.
Thanksgiving gingerly for the sympathy we are pursuing over and over again.