- By Omri Shabath
The pent-up hate erupts with one event
So horrid, leaving hearts and souls all rent.
Like gas that bursts from shaky fizzy drink,
Thus wrath explodes and ire declines to shrink.
The rulers wave their venal fists on stage,
The triggered masses roar with raving rage.
Forsakes its role, the press implores for gore;
Without a doubt we madly march to war.
No questions asked or ‘traitor!’ shall be shrieked;
Along the pain, intolerance has peaked.
Illume our triumphs, failures ought we hide,
No sympathy to show the other side.
At last the cannons cease the sense to dread;
When silence settles, mutely scream the dead.