47th President Poem: Echoes of a Fractured Homeland, by Nma Dhahir

Beneath the smolder of ancestral skies,
where my mother’s loom wove threads of flame,
we traced our names in soil—unseen, unclaimed.
Liberators came with hollow eyes,
their maps redrawn in ink that bleeds like lies.

You speak of freedom, sir, in measured tones,
while your drones hummed lullabies of stone,
turning our rivers to ash, our songs to sighs.
Did you learn our stories? Or just the plots
where our blood became the pawn, the price forgot?

Each president a chapter, bound in dust—
promises like shrapnel, buried in our trust.
Your wars carved borders where our children sleep,
their dreams now ghost in cities scorched and steeped.

Yet still, we rise—not for your flag’s salute,
but for the roots that crack your concrete truth.
Our scars are not your legacy to script,
nor our resilience a debt to encrypt.

Forty-seventh shadow, your throne’s a fleeting pyre.
We are the embers no empire can retire.