From the ridge
was everything.
Everything
he had ever known.
His world, yet
it had meant nothing
to others. Rock, sand,
black escarpments
on shimmering horizons.
Now, that silence
of nothing was broken.
The low moaning
of jets, unseen. Sent
by investors, in cities
only found on a map.
Those people. Cold,
dark as a desert night.
Advancing, occupying,
enslaving. Ignorant
and hostile on this land.
His tears fall as trees fall
in a virgin forest, unheard,
unknown. Absorbed
by the quick-sands of greed.

Ronnie Smith was born and lived around Glasgow for most of his life. He has traveled widely and, having lived in Bucharest, Romania for six years, he is now based in southwest France. He writes on politics and culture and has published articles in France, the U.K., Romania, and Australia. He has taken to writing poetry recently and it’s become something of a virus infection.

creative’s note: This came to me when considering the situation in Saudia Arabia from 1917 to the present day.

image: unsplash.com