Miracles Are Mirages in the Middle East

The countdown has begun

Migrant workers

fall like leaves

from the sturdy scaffolding

they built

Their bodies

slice the indifferent air

They wish for the falcon

to prove its loyalty

to the nation

to swoop them

in its talons and save

what’s left of them

No one told them

miracles are mirages

in the Middle East

Pieces of their bodies

scatter like seeds

Green grass grows

on the red ground

on which players kick

around the workers’ body parts

with spiked shoes

to practice

The worker’s ghosts

suspended mid-air

get a much coveted aerial view

they wouldn’t have afforded when alive

They cheer the players to score

Their deaths should have been

worth something

A player strikes

A workers’ head rolls into the net

The world cheers