A poem for our times
On a table, together with all my options,
I sat under a nuclear umbrella and played with a mushroom cloud.
I was in a zone,
I pitted a nuclear duck against a terrorist octopus.
They crossed each others’ red lines until both reached the point of no return
And spinning, they fell off the table.
I got up to close the window of opportunity,
as it was letting in a cold draft from the Islamic Winter outside.
Spring, all too short, was over.