Hugging their dear chairs close,
Arab leaders were sleeping in.
Their bodies befriended only
sleek satin and smooth silk.
All their nights were very long
like a solar solstice night.
They slept to the marrow,
dreaming only about eternity.
Despite intelligence reports—
they kept sleeping and snoring
on their comfortable pillows
embroidered with gold—
Oh, I mean people’s sweat.
Their ears were stuffed with
the cotton of denial and derision.
Despite the alarming tears of the orphans
who just wanted a loaf of bread,
they kept sleeping.
Despite the cries of Oliver Twists
they kept snoring.
They didn’t heal the wounds,
nor did they mend society’s cracks.
Even a poultice would suffice,
but they kept sleeping and snoring.
Despite people’s supplications
they kept slumbering and hibernating.
Suddenly, at a wintry night, so short
like a lunar solstice night,
little worms began
feasting on the fragile delicious winsome wood of their chairs,
and licking the stains of caviar on their silky dresses.
Crows began cawing on the
windowsills of their palaces,
waiting for the coffins of their chairs to
be buried in dunghills.
Then a lovely song
named “great unexpectations”
exploded in their cozy chambers opening up their ears.
They woke up to the rhythm of fear
because their advisors
didn’t advise them to read
a book that warned.