In the courtyard, the pagans gather—
beneath the dome, an uneasy quiet.
Before the storm, the fading flower
wilts in silence, soft and crushed.
A coil of wormwood winds in prayer,
bleeding through the lustful night.
Al-Aqsa’s mosque crowned with worldly glare—
power’s thirst foretells its blight.
The Promised Land will march to war,
drawn into a hopeless round;
where once the covenant was law,
now only ash and exile’s sound.