A net of ubiquity drapes over the globe,
accumulating wonders for the enlightened eye
and asphyxiating every cultural anaerobe.
We’ll leave their relics to become calcified
and exhibit them with the undignified.
Any custom is a costume to be tried
and stripped away when it becomes pale.
Apply the treatment; blood of genocide,
wash away, and remember to exhale,
no need to perceive the finer detail.
Damascus sent silks to western restaurants,
but when it sent the waves of wandering souls,
the diners sat back, called them combatants.
They consumed the kamayeh in their bowls
and choked as they cried for border controls.
There stands a chapel of hollow icons;
globetrotting facades to collect and keep
safe as we let atrocities become bygones.
As the apex of tension heightens too steep
under cosmos blankets we may only sleep.