Vultures loom over the torched cloud-lines
where ghosts of the innocent climb,
iced nests on chipped mountain ledges
far inside bicoloured ancient crevices.
In the black nights in airless drops of rain
their saviour exiled from deserts of pain,
chasing full-moons over the velvet hills
where only death greets the night’s sombre chill.
Yellow and red pulsates these lands
from golden-gate to London’s old strand,
flames of Olympus held in stubborn pride
where fear only alludes the totalitarian lie.
Such noble and karmic beliefs
a closed book in the eyes of the world’s thief,
there is no prize of gold, diamonds or oil
a raped bare land with no war-torn spoils,
turning our heads to the mass genocide
we only cared to look with half opened eyes.