Supermen Poem by Zahra Zuhair

They created me to liberate my people

but you labelled me ‘Terrorist'

and they believed you - the sheeple

because you're the ‘Humanist' -

the humanist that drops the bombs,

that plays war like a video game,

buys ammunition likes its oxygen,

because you say you want to tame

the evil dictator.

But what you really want is to steal

the land and rape the earth

because you do not feel

the plight of the poor man,

the purpose of the liberation,

the shame of the humble leader.

You are no president, you are the war monger,

The face of justice and liberation?

The embodiment of freedom?

With a fat pay check

and the promise of a kingdom -

Run by democracy, but fueled

by corruption, built upon

blood and soiled

by shameful massacre and occupation.



But you, you know the shame

for your mind is small,

and your heart is smaller.

Although you appear tall

in your red underpants and cape

flying behind you because of wind

from a fan. I can smell it.

Do you smell the stink?

You wreak of a rusty odour,

a mix of oil and blood

like rotten fruit on rotten earth.

They created me to liberate my people

but I wear no cape, no red underpants either.

The only red on me

is the dry blood of my brother,

the one I could not save

from you, as you dug his grave;

the one who left behind a family

as he joined the mound

of bones, skin and flesh.

What was once beautiful souls,

now reduced to nothing.

Fighting for freedom is a rich man's game

and a poor man's story once told.