Sqaure N Compass

Arch-enemies back on the wire, old ghosts dancing in rocket fire, ceasefire paper, two months thin, now the smoke comes rolling in. Trump at the pulpit, match in his hand, calling himself the peace-talk man, started the blaze, now he sells the rain, wearing mediator on a warlord chain. Hormuz choked and the market screams, bread gets heavier in working-class dreams, kings fall fast, new guards rise, same black suit with different eyes. Square and compass, draw that line, level the truth with a crooked sign, plumb line swings over blood-red seas, Everybody’s guilty by the third degree. Square and compass, stone by stone, They build their lodge out of broken homes, peace on paper, fire underneath, holy men bargaining through their teeth. February came with a thunderclap, IDF strike and a White House map, top of the tower knocked off clean, but power don’t die, it changes screens. Tehran said, “Touch Beirut, we reply,” Sunday lit up the bruised night sky, who struck first depends who’s paid, history limps in a propaganda parade. April swore the bombs would sleep, but promises sink where the oil runs deep, ships in the Gulf, sanctions tight, nuclear shadows in fluorescent light. Square and compass, draw that line, level the truth with a crooked sign, plumb line swings over blood-red seas, Everybody’s guilty by the third degree. Square and compass, ashlar stone, polished speeches, marrow and bone, peace on paper, fire underneath, holy men bargaining through their teeth. Lebanon bleeds while the cameras blink, a million gone from the kitchen sink, families scattered, cities torn, another child learns what sirens warn. Hezbollah fires, Israel strikes, governments talk under Washington lights, one side says “truce,” one side says “no,” and the graves keep filling in rows below. Bring out the trowel, spread the lie, mortar made from alibi, keystone cracked in the temple wall, when the powerful stumble, the poor ones fall. On the tracing board, they sketch new peace, but forget the dead don’t get released, the lodge is full, the gavel drops, then somebody whispers, “Make it stop.” Square and compass, draw that line, level the truth with a crooked sign, plumb line swings over blood-red seas, Everybody’s guilty by the third degree. Square and compass, stone by stone, They build their lodge out of broken homes, peace on paper, fire underneath, holy men bargaining through their teeth. Final talks in a room of smoke, every handshake smelling broke, ceasefire hanging by a wire, square and compass in the fire.