The Quartets of Gaddafi

I wrote this poem in the Arabic common language after the Libyan rebels entered the capital city of Tripoli Sunday August 22, 2011, ending 42 years of Gaddafi’s family reign.

It is a gift from my heart and conscious to the Libyan people. I wrote it especially for the Poetry Event & Mourning Dinner, Sunday September 18, 2011 in the Arab American Cultural Center, Houston, Texas, along with other poems honoring the martyrs of the revolutions in Palestine, Tunisia, Egypt, Yemen, and Syria.

The Quartets of Gaddafi

Another idol has fallen

The people asked you freedom, you threw them rockets

No wonder, your name means the blood thrower

You slaughtered them openly in front of the world

You destroyed a homeland without even an apology

***

You never cared about your people

You kidnapped them on a daily basis

You gave them dignity by drops, but humiliation by stacks

The people today are not scared of you any more

***

During your time, the homeland kept bleeding

You worked hard to delete the identity of the people

You didn’t stop, day and night, erasing their face

Your dry face brought death to Libya and its people

***

Death always stood by your oppression

Fulfilling your promises was always a lie

Everyone will miss your speeches

Oh Muammar, your speeches are great jokes

***

You spent months shelling cities

Rejecting all calls to leave

And made the blood runs like rivers

Do you still think that you will survive the storms?

***

From Bin Ghazi (city) started the stormy weather blowing on you

You knew your army won’t have a chance in Misrata (city)

And you didn’t expect us to welcome you with flowers in Al-Zawiya (city)

And, finally, the land in Tripoli cracked open under your feet

***

You left your children behind and ran away with a trembling heart

How coward are you to do that?

Where is the revolutionary of the tent, where is the brave?

Your tribe will deny you, and also all other tribes and sects

***

Oh rulers, no matter how high you fly, the people will pluck your feather

No matter how oppressing you become, the people will harvest your heads

Do not ever call your people Rats again

When you anger your people, they will march to you in millions

***

Poetry by: Tarif Youssef-Agha

Houston, Texas

September 2011

http://sites.google.com/site/tarifspoetry