K. Hassan
I saw with my own eyes invaders killing all my folks
I
YOU
Missing the thawless sky,
among arcades of treaties and clauses,
Europe dreams in the syntax of tribunals—
where scrolls of jurisprudence
flutter like moulting feathers of the Sibyl.
She counts her decimals of carbon,
her quotas of compassion,
her migrants queued like shadows in vestibules,
chanting in Babel’s intercalated vowels.
The cities rehearse their conscience:
paper lanterns in Strasbourg,
green banners braided in parliaments,
the ritual of penance without altar.
Yet beneath, in the catacomb of armouries,
the rust of forgotten arsenals gnaws.
Drones whine in the Eastern mist—
but the budget line protests: too dear,
too dear the iron birds,
let the accountants weigh the sky!
In the halls of forgotten forges,
where Hephaestus once hammered shields
for heroes bound to Ilium’s walls,
now clerks inscribe ledgers of restraint,
measuring the ore against the edict,
the anvil silenced by decrees of thrift.
The Cyclopes, idle in their caves,
watch as the continent barters its thunderbolts
for garlands of recycled laurel.
II
O Europa, abducted thrice—
once by the Bull of Cretan shores,
once by the Market’s golden yoke,
once by the Law that bound your wrists with red tape—
what oracle do you serve now?
In Berlin a minister stammers,
petitioning the robed Areopagus:
May we lift the sword, or must we bow
until the invader waters his horse in the Spree?
The statute’s labyrinth has no thread,
only footnotes devouring footnotes,
a Minotaur of jurisprudence feeding
on the flesh of swift decision.
Meanwhile, in Albion’s mist-shrouded isles,
engineers dream of counter-swarms,
machines to blind the locust-drone,
Ariadne’s web spun from silicon threads
to ensnare the winged harbingers of Scythia.
Yet the treasurers close their ledgers—
Too costly, too costly,
while iron tides advance from the steppes,
and the ghosts of Agincourt whisper
of arrows unloosed in timely hour.
The Thames murmurs elegies of empire,
where once dreadnoughts cleaved the waves,
now committees deliberate on protocols,
parsing the syntax of retaliation
as if war were a symposium in Plato’s cave,
shadows dancing on walls of parchment.
In the tabloids' tawdry theatre,
Harry's nuptials unravel like a frayed coronet,
debated in the pub's dim glow: "He's not royal,
not anymore, exiled to the Pacific's palm-fringed exile,
real Windsor blood diluted in celebrity's chalice."
The barmaid shrugs, pouring pints of forgetfulness,
while patrons parse the pedigree of princes,
hung up on headlines, not the harbingers at the gate.
III
O readers of treaties,
disciples of benevolence,
have you not seen how swiftly
the Furies exchange their masks?
Mercy becomes paralysis,
rights calcify into fetters,
and while the orators debate definitions,
the frontier smoulders in silence.
Not cruelty, but apathy breeds the beasts.
Not hatred, but hesitation opens the gate.
Already the chorus of extremity rehearses—
they warm their throats in dark taverns,
they measure the silence of hesitant fathers.
The pendulum swings back to bronze,
to the age of Achilles’ wrath,
where pity yields to the spear’s imperative.
In the shadow of the Acropolis,
where once the Erinyes were appeased
by Athena’s olive branch,
now the olive withers in bureaucratic frost,
and the Eumenides stir anew,
their serpents coiling around neglected altars.
The continent, once cradle of logos,
now ensnared in its own dialectic,
debates the essence of defence
while the barbarians polish their greaves.
IV
There is no scapegoat in this wasteland,
only a mirror:
Europa gazing upon herself,
her reflection fractured
between compassion and survival,
between symposium and shield.
The rivers murmur:
choose quickly,
or be chosen by those who do not choose.
And the gods, grown tired of counsel,
withdraw into their mute constellations,
while the continent lingers,
caught between tribunal and tempest,
green banners wilting in the ash-wind,
armouries locked,
and the invaders already rehearsing
the march upon her sleep.
The Rhine, laden with memories of Caesars,
flows sluggish with the silt of resolutions,
its bridges arched like unanswered questions.
In Brussels, the labyrinthine corridors
echo with the footfalls of envoys,
bearing missives of measured equity,
while the Carpathians tremble
under the weight of unspoken auguries.
In the council chambers of Paris,
uncertainty uncoils like the Seine's serpentine bends,
ministers murmur in the mist of indecision:
"Shall we arm the horizon, or audit the alliance?"
The Eiffel Tower, iron sentinel, sways in the wind of whispers,
while the croissants crumble in cafes of conjecture,
patrons debating the diplomacy of doubt,
their espresso cooling as the eastern clouds gather.
V
Recall the shades of Marathon and Salamis,
where the polis armed its oarsmen
against the Persian gale.
Now, in the agora of unified markets,
the hoplites are demobilized,
their phalanx dissolved into quotas,
their spears traded for scrolls of accord.
The Delphic oracle, once cryptic in smoke,
now speaks in spreadsheets and summits,
prophesying peace through parity,
yet the Pythia’s voice cracks
under the drone of approaching swarms.
O Themis, blindfolded arbiter,
your scales tip with the weight of precedents,
but the sword in your hand rusts unused,
while Nemesis circles the periphery,
her wings fanning the embers of unrest.
The continent, heir to Hellas and Rome,
fumbles its inheritance,
clutching codices instead of fasces,
debating the justice of reprisal
as the legions of the east muster.
In the vineyards of Gaul,
where Bacchus once reveled in abundance,
now the vines are pruned by regulations,
the harvest tallied against emissions,
while the Gauls of old, fierce in their torques,
watch from the shades as their descendants
petition for permission to arm.
In the barracks' backrooms, a sergeant's spouse
hears the neighbour’s nagging counsel: "Fix those teeth,
girl, before he returns from the drill fields—
he won't glance your way with that gap-toothed grin,
all those euros spent on deployments, not dentures."
She pulls a long face, the mirror mocking her,
pills for the pain swallowed in silence,
while the husband patrols phantom borders,
demobbed dreams deferred in domestic decay.
VI
The Baltic whispers of forgotten pacts,
where Teutonic knights once carved frontiers,
now the seas are patrolled by protocols,
vessels idling in harbors of hesitation.
The Vistula carries laments from Warsaw,
echoes of partitions and uprisings,
yet the chancelleries ponder the cost
of fortifying the pale.
O Hyperion, fallen from your chariot,
your light dims over the steppes,
where Titans stir in their slumber,
challenging the Olympian order.
Europe, once the forge of enlightenment,
now tempers its steel with temperance,
quenching the blade in waters of welfare,
while the Cyclopean eye of surveillance
blinks from distant towers.
In the fjords of the north,
where Odin’s ravens once scouted,
now the All-Father’s wisdom is archived
in databases of diplomacy,
and the Valkyries wait unemployed,
as the einherjar debate the ethics
of pre-emptive valour.
In Berlin's bier halls, the armless spectre looms,
disarmed by directives, harmless in hesitation,
the minister's plea echoing in empty echoes:
"We are not aggressors, echt pacific,
stamm' aus Europa, no fangs bared."
The patrons nod, steins clinking in complacency,
while the eastern winds whistle through unwatched walls,
the Vaterland veiled in vulnerability's veil.
VII
The Mediterranean, cradle of myths,
laps at shores eroded by influxes,
waves bearing argosies of aspiration,
yet the harbours are clogged with clauses,
the Argo dismantled for inspections.
Jason’s fleece, once golden quest,
now audited for sustainability,
while the Sirens sing of solidarity,
luring the continent to rocky indecision.
In Rome, the Forum’s ruins murmur
of senates that armed legions swiftly,
now the Capitolini debate definitions,
parsing the lex of liberty
as the Rubicon swells unchecked.
The Iberian winds carry scents of siestas,
where once conquistadors sailed forth,
now the armadas are moored by memos,
the New World forgotten in favor
of nurturing the garden within.
In Milan's moda melee, confusion cascades
like spaghetti strands untangled in turmoil,
designers deliberate on directives: "Is it ethical,
this export of arms amid aperitivos?"
The piazzas pulse with perplexed protests,
gelato melting in the heat of haphazard policies,
while the Colosseum's ghosts chuckle at the chaos,
gladiators replaced by gesticulating bureaucrats.
VIII
O Cassandra, unheeded prophetess,
your warnings echo in committee rooms,
foretelling the fall of unbolted gates,
yet the elders consult their oracles of opinion,
polling the populace on priorities.
The horse, wooden and laden,
stands at the threshold,
its belly gravid with omens,
while the priests of progress
incense the air with ideals.
The Alps, sentinels of sovereignty,
crumble under avalanches of accords,
their peaks pierced by tunnels of trade,
yet the passes remain unguarded,
inviting the Hannibal of the hour.
In the lowlands, where dikes defy the sea,
the engineers of endurance
now fortify against floods of formality,
dying the waters with ink of injunctions.
In the suburbs of scarcity, ordinary penury persists,
a pensioner pores over pantry shelves: "Bread or batteries,
for the blackout drills that never come?"
The landlord laughs, ledger in hand,
evicting echoes of austerity's anthem,
while the welfare web frays at the fringes,
children chalking hopscotch on cracked pavements,
dreams deferred in the dust of daily drudgery.
IX
The chorus assembles in the amphitheatre,
voices fragmented like Attic shards,
intoning the antistrophe of atrophy:
We who wove the web of welfare,
now entangled in its strands,
watch as the spiders of strife approach.
The extreme ones, cloaked in antique robes,
invoke the shades of Sparta’s rigor,
promising the helots’ discipline
to a demos grown soft in symposiums.
Yet no venom in the verse for the wanderers,
only lament for the lost compass,
the polestar obscured by auroras of altruism.
In the apps' anonymous agora,
snippets of strife surface: "Not Ukrainian,
stamm' aus Moldova, echt European,
hung up on handouts, not the headlines of havoc."
The scrollers swipe through shattered stories,
emojis eclipsing the urgency's edge.
X
Europa, polyphonic in your plight,
your cantons and canticles clashing,
seek the lyre of Orpheus to harmonize,
but the strings are frayed by fiscal fingers,
the melody muted by mandates.
The Danube, artery of empires,
pulses with the rhythm of reluctance,
its banks lined with bastions unbuilt,
while the Huns of history rehearse
their nomadic narratives anew.
In Prague, the golem slumbers in clay,
awaiting the word to awaken,
but the rabbis of regulation
debate the incantation’s intent.
In the food banks' fluorescent flicker,
a mother measures milk against mortgages,
the queue curling like question marks:
"What you saving for, if not the siege?"
The volunteer vows, voice veiled in virtue,
pills for the poverty swallowed in shifts.
XI
O Proteus, shape-shifter of seas,
your forms reflect the continent’s flux,
from warrior to warden of the weak,
now morphing midst the maelstrom.
The Pyrenees echo with pastoral pipes,
where Pan once frolicked free,
now the flocks are tallied for tolerances,
the wilderness warded by warrants.
The Volga’s distant roar reminds
of realms unbound by rubrics,
where decisions descend like decrees,
unfettered by forums.
In Lyon's labyrinthine lanes,
uncertainty unfurls like baguettes broken,
chefs conferring in culinary councils:
"Season with sanctions, or savor the status quo?"
The garlic ghosts of gastronomy grieve,
as the menu morphs into manifestos of muddle.
XII
The aurora borealis dances derisively,
illuminating the impotence of intent,
as the northern lights mock the night watch,
unarmed against the auroral assault.
In Helsinki’s halls, the sauna’s steam
clouds the clarity of counsel,
sweating out strategies unexecuted.
The Adriatic sighs with siren songs,
luring the unwary to laxity,
while the Cyclades circle in cycles
of complacency and crisis.
In Naples' noisy neighbourhoods,
confusion clamours like cappuccinos frothed,
vendors venting in volcanic volleys:
"Pizza or patrols, which to prioritize?"
The Vesuvius vapours veil the vista,
erupting echoes of entangled edicts.
XIII
O Mnemosyne, mother of muses,
recall the ruins of ravaged realms,
the post-bellum phoenix that rose
only to roost in regulatory nests.
The continent, cartographer of its own confines,
draws borders blurred by benevolence,
inviting the cartographers of conquest
to redraw with redder ink.
The Elbe elegizes the eras elapsed,
where walls once withered,
now spectres of separation stir.
In Frankfurt's financial fortresses,
armless accountants audit the arsenal,
defenceless in their data-driven daze:
"We are not warriors, stamm' aus spreadsheets,
echt efficient, no edges sharpened."
The stock tickers tease with tranquil trades,
while the Rhine ripples with repressed rage.
XIV
The chorus swells in crescendo,
voices veering from verdure to vigilance,
yet the orchestration falters,
the conductor caught in counterpoint.
Europa, emblem of entanglement,
your bull now burdened by bureaucracy,
charges into the chasm of choice.
The gods, in their geodesic thrones,
gaze upon the geodesic gamble,
as the globe spins toward selection.
In the hostels of hardship, humble hunger hovers,
a migrant mechanic mends meagre machines:
"Oil or olives, for the engine of endurance?"
The foreman frowns, forms in fist,
bureaucracy biting at the bootstraps,
while the workshop whispers of withered wages.
XV
In the end, the elegy evolves,
from lament to the loom of legacy,
weaving the warp of warning
with the weft of will.
Yet the shuttle hesitates,
the pattern perturbed by procrastination,
and the tapestry tears
under the tension of time.
The invaders, inexorable as Iapetus,
advance upon the atlas unarmoured,
while the titans of tolerance
tremble in their towers.
XVI
O Lethe, river of forgetfulness,
your waters wash the wounds of wars,
but the scars surface in surges,
reminding of readiness relinquished.
The continent, convalescent from conflicts,
clings to the clinic of compassion,
neglecting the gymnasium of guard.
Now the physicians of policy
prescribe palliatives for perils,
while the surgeons of severity sharpen scalpels.
In the demobilized domiciles, a veteran's vow:
"Polish those pearls, love, before the parade passes—
he'll scan the skyline, not your smile's shadow."
She sighs, syringe in sight, for the sake of semblance,
teeth treated in the twilight of tenderness deferred.
XVII
The Black Forest broods with Brothers Grimm,
fairy tales of forests forsaken,
where wolves wander unchecked,
and the woodsmen wield writs instead of axes.
In Vienna, the waltz whirls wildly,
steps synchronized to statutes,
twirling toward the tango of turmoil.
The Seine serpentines with sophistication,
banks burdened by books of bylaws,
as the bridges bow under the ballast.
XVIII
O Janus, two-faced sentinel,
your gaze bifurcated between backward benevolence
and forward fortitude,
doors ajar to dilemmas.
The continent contemplates your countenance,
hesitating at the hinge of history,
as the hourglass haemorrhages sand.
The extreme echoes amplify,
resonating in the rotundas of resentment,
promising the purity of purpose.
XIX
Yet in this mosaic of malaise,
no tile tainted by tribalism,
only the grout of governance ground thin,
exposing the expanse to erosion.
Europa, enigma of equity,
your equation unbalanced by externalities,
solve for the sum of survival.
The stars, stoic in their spheres,
align in augury ambiguous,
awaiting the axis of action.
XX
The poem prolongs, as the predicament persists,
verses vaulting over voids,
bridging the breach with balladry.
But the bard bows to the burden,
the ink inexhaustible yet insufficient,
as the continent composes its coda
in the key of quandary.
And the chorus concludes, not with clamour,
but with the quietus of query:
Will the wilted wreath revive,
or yield to the yoke anew?
XXI
In the ether of endless echoes,
fragments float like flotsam from fractured feasts:
"Not Baltic, stamm' aus Balkans, echt entangled,
hung up on histories, not the hybrid horizons."
The digital diaspora dialogues in dialects,
threads unravelling in the twittering twilight.
O Tiresias, blind seer of Thebes,
your prophecies persist in podcasts,
foretelling the fission of fraternity,
while the oracles of opinion polls
oscillate in oblivion's orbit.
XXII
The chorus reconvenes in cyberspace,
avatars assembling in asynchronous agony,
intoning the ode to obsolescence:
We who wired the world with welfare's web,
now snared in signals of surrender,
as the algorithms augur the advance.
Yet the human pulse persists,
in the humdrum of hunger's hearth,
a clerk counting coupons: "Rent or rations,
for the roof over recession's remnants?"
The soup kitchen steams with stories suppressed,
ladles lifting the liquid of lost livelihoods.
XXIII
Europa, eternal in your e conundrum,
your mosaic marred by modern malaise,
piece together the puzzle of purpose,
lest the pieces scatter in the storm's scatter.
The gods, gazing from gamified galaxies,
game the geopolitics with glitchy grace,
as the continent glitches in its gridlock.
And the invaders, insidious as Iris's illusions,
infiltrate the interfaces uninvited,
while the firewalls flicker in futile flares.
XXIV
O Echo, nymph of Narcissus's neglect,
your repetitions resound in resolutions repeated,
fading into the feedback of forgotten fears.
The continent, caught in the cave of complacency,
hears the hollow holler of history's haunt,
yet turns to the mirror of momentary mercy.
In the end, the elegy endures,
a litany lengthening like the line of legacies,
warning woven into the warp of wakefulness.
and the invaders already rehearsing the march upon her slumber
