The desert wind ignites with sudden flares, Where sands of Kuwait and the Emirates lie; Beneath the choke of siege and closing snares, The rockets trace their arc across the sky. While Moscow’s hand extends across the board, To pledge its iron to a kindred sword. Beside the Nile, an ancient river runs, As eastern silk meets desert dust and stone; A quiet envoy walks beneath the suns, To bind the trade-routes for a rising throne. The pacts are penned, the balances are weighed, In quiet rooms where global debts are made. Far in the north, where steppe and rocket meet, The silent orbit feels the war descend; No longer bound to mud and city street, The reaching strike seeks heaven to upend. A launchpad scarred beneath a foreign glare, As earth's cold sorrow climbs into the air. And in a quiet city room at last, A steady voice yields softly to the night; Through ninety years and two, the battle passed, A life well-given to the long, hard fight. The author rests, her written pages done, While beneath the dust, the wheel of power spins on.
