No Jewels In The Treasures Of Kings

Wearing jackets torn at the seams-

Pierced by the cold wind, collecting wet mud

Adorned by cuts on course hands-

Filled with dried dirt and congealed blood

Come with Asiya, smell the roses of tire’s burnt rubber

Let’s pay visit to royalty in tents as they shyly take cover

Flushing necks bruised by the same night’s frozen hover

Who is Tory to separate when we are all born of mother

Who is to idealize ever, that they somehow, are an ‘other’

Their loneliness and thirst resemble that of a bereaved lover

Their skin just as needy of warm compassion to smother

Their souls just as worthy of having satiated immense hunger

With a cleansed heart open the gates for illustrious seraphim

Rip off your suit and throw away your pretentious diadem

Sit down and eat

As they are of us

- We are of them

It’s from الله