The eagle once flew with honor bright,
Its talons sheathed in law and right.
But now it screams across the sky,
A shadowed wing, a thundered cry.
A name upon its beak it bears—
Trump, the dealer of despairs.
In halls once lit by Founders’ dreams,
Now echo wealth-born, power schemes.
He trades in fear and fire for gold,
With tweets like sabers, brazen, bold.
And in the mirror of his pride,
The world begins to slip, divide.
For oil? For votes? For whispered praise
From Zion’s hawk in holy haze?
He signs in ink that reeks of war,
Then turns to smile and sign some more.
And from the West, the engines groan,
As death prepares to leave its home.
Across the seas, in Persia’s land,
The sands grow warm beneath the stand
Of men who chant, of flags unfurled—
Who too have guilt upon this world.
But not the streets nor mother’s cries
Deserve to burn beneath the skies.
Ali Khamenei, aged and cold,
Becomes the target, bloody, bold.
A drone is sent, a name is marked,
Another flame, the night is sparked.
The scroll of fate begins to bleed
With every child who learns to grieve.
Not justice guides this fatal hand,
But whispered schemes from foreign land.
A pact with Bibi, fierce and sly—
With glimmers of the Temple high.
Together now they set the stage
For ashes, tombs, and ancient rage.
The world holds breath, the clocks slow down,
While sirens wail in every town.
The UN pleads, the bishops pray,
Yet vengeance calls the end of day.
And Europe watches, thin with dread,
Recalling what their grandfathers said.
“Mistakes are made when men go mad
And use their flags to clothe the bad.”
But who will speak, who dares to rise
When power’s mask obscures the lies?
Oh, Donald Trump! What have you done?
You play with death like it’s a gun.
You bargain lives to please the few—
Your people suffer, bleeding too.
No bunker saves a soul from wrath
Once mushroom clouds redraw the path.
A mother holds her child at night
In Brooklyn’s lights or Gaza’s blight.
An old man stares toward the sea,
Recalling dreams of liberty.
But dreams decay when bombs arise
And thunder silences the wise.
What gain is there in such a game?
What history will bless your name?
The flag you wave, the fists you pump—
All stained by fire and history’s dump.
O World! Awake before the tide
Consumes what little hope we hide.
The brink is near, the silence thin—
Will wisdom reign or war begin?
This poem ends, the tale not yet.
The ink may dry, the hands may sweat.
But let it echo through the years:
Beware the man who profits fears.
Beware the pact ‘tween throne and sword—
For peace is fragile, not assured.
Let history judge the hand that drew
The world toward a fate untrue.
May voices rise, may people see—
Before we write… World War Three.
