In Abu Dhabi where the sun does rise,
A city gleams beneath the skies.
From Sheikh Zayed’s grand, sacred halls,
To Corniche’s waves and desert calls.
With every dawn, through every night,
Abu Dhabi shines with light.
Through every step, in every cheer,

Abu Dhabi’s soul is near.
In every glance, in every song,
Abu Dhabi’s heart beats strong.
With every dream, in every dance,
Abu Dhabi takes a chance.
In every smile, in every tear,
Abu Dhabi’s spirit is clear.
Through every storm, through every sun,
Abu Dhabi’s journey has begun.

In Kyiv’s subway shelter, a girl folds
bullet casings into cranes—wings etched
with Psalms hummed as shells tarnish sunsets to brass.

On Donetsk’s front, soldiers pluck petals
to pad boots where redemption sprouts
from blistered roots.

Beneath Gaza’s shattered solar grids,
ants weave fuse-wire nests between Quran
and rifle text—six-legged imams reconciling steel.

An Israeli ****** texts his Palestinian pen pal:
Your olive grove grew through my scope last night.
They meme Moses and Mohamed vaping
under the Red Sea’s algorithmic tide.

This is why laundry dances on Mariupol’s balconies—
why tank crews plant sunflowers in tread marks,
why Bedouin teens stream TikTok psalms
where Hagar’s tears salted dunes.

But lick Crimean wounds, let Gaza’s dust
baptize your lens, love the enemy’s laugh—

to hear sparrows in AK barrels chant Salaam
in C minor, eggs cracking into maps
where mines burst figs even Judas craves.

Putin’s Frost

His shadow stretches—

A frost creeping over borders,

silent, calculated, unyielding.
Words like chess moves,

pawns sacrificed without remorse.

Peace, to him, is a frozen lake,

Surface smooth, depths treacherous.

He builds walls of ice,

while the world watches,

waiting for the thaw.
But frost cannot last forever—

even winter yields to spring.

What lies beneath the ice?

A reckoning, or just more silence?
-------------------------------------------------
Zelensky’s Lighthouse

He stands in rubble,

A lighthouse in the storm,

his voice cracking under the weight of hope.


Hands that once held laughter 
now
build barricades from broken promises.

Peace, to him, is a fragile flame,

flickering in the wind of war.


He speaks of justice,

of memory etched into stone,

of a nation that refuses to kneel.

But even lighthouses crumble

under the weight of endless waves.


Can light outlast the storm?

Or will it again be swallowed by the dark?
-----------------------------------------------------------­
. Trump’s Golden Table


His shadow looms,

A dealmaker’s grin etched in gold,

words sharp, cutting through silence.
Peace, to him, is a transaction,

A handshake, a signature on paper.


But the table he sits at is scarred,

its legs shaky, its surface cracked.

He trades in promises,

but the currency of war is blood,

and no deal can wash it away.


Can gold buy peace?

Or is it just another mask

for the same old game?
--------------------------------------------
Making Peace
—— The Cost of Ceasefire


Thirty days of fragile hope, thirty nights of whispered prayers.

Will it hold? We do not know, the voices sigh, but in the silence,

Between the shells, we hear the echoes of desire,

the whispers, of peace. Three shadows collide—

frost, storm, and gold—each a reflection of power,

each a mirror of humanity’s flaws. Peace is not a deal,

but a fragile crystal, forged in pauses between breaths,
in the restructuring of sentences. Love is the reckoning—


A surrender to the collective,

A refusal to let desire

become a refuge from responsibility.

Peace is not the absence of war,

but the presence of a world remade—


A world where love is not a refuge,

but a reckoning.

Möbius vectors twist  
through quantum spin foam's flutter—  
chaos morphs to prime  

Sigma-algebra tides  
dissolve 0.5g wavefunctions  
in lunar gravity's bride  

Two Dirac algebras  
entangle event horizons—  
Rebar Riemann's line

——To Antoi Gaudi
“One that goes from Earth to eternity, to the highest.”


He was the genius architect in the first place

Using matter, pure and fine
He makes the life that he intends

But in arts pattern, and in science design
At the second place, he was a craftsman
where rigorous rectangles border
a dreaming perspective, where a stream
awakened, he created his life ideal


Then third, he was the naturalist,
Using all he has inspired, he stated
“The big book, always open and we
must strive to read” is that of nature
Least not last, fourthly, he was a guru
“the straight line belongs to men
the curved one to God ” Likewise
Movement meets stillness, a line meets a shout

He was always there in the history of Basilica
Architecture and Geometry
Art of fantasy and algebra wonders

Solo cello echoing in seine river.

He whispers: haven’t you forgotten

that poem I used to read it for you?

She replies: autumn leaves never forgot
Count on our days when we were happy lovers

Cello tears up to season changes
Melody shoot into memories
She penetrated the cello strings to collect
Autumn fall leaves and prays for him

Memories are fettered. Likewise
the autumn new falling leaves
Float through seafront sunrise.
(Orange-red, shine touches)

Solo cello echoing in seine river.
He whispers, she remains silence. 

Seductions of images pies high

Gushing from the mouths of moon lady
To ease her hair across the stars
She heard he was whispering under the sky
The only way to not be afraid black truth
Is to learn to face your white fears,

You're not afraid of the dark
You're only afraid of a lack of light,
Whenever it's a fear of falling,
When you say, you're scared of heights,

In the universe, full of illuminated particles
In the world, full of colours
In the room, full of lunar emotion

She still wanted to dance with you,
With his fingers on the black and white piano keys
Leaping and deep, cool murmur moon