Cuckoo Nation - The Curse of Zionism

 

Cuckoo Nation

 

It came not with a song, but with a cry—
A feathered stranger, bold in foreign air.
No nest it built, no hatchling of its own.
Yet still it laid its future in the straw
Of those who'd sung beneath that olive sky.

 

The cuckoo waits until the host is gone
Then drops its egg where others ought to grow.
Its birth begins with murder: one by one
The native young are cast beyond the rim
Their lives a price for foreign life to thrive.
So too, this state was born in fire and flight
With walls of myth to mask the storm of blood.

 

In Gaza, smoke becomes the infant's breath.
The streets are graves before the names are known.
The tanks roll through where orchards used to bloom
The drones erase what time and toil have built.
They say it's war—but children are the dead.
They say defence—but rubble tells the tale.
A genocide unfolds in daily light
Disguised as right, as law, as self-defence.

 

And in the West Bank hills, the roots are torn—
The ancient terraces, the wells, the homes.
The olive trees are burned before they bear
Their fruit condemned for growing in the wrong.
Each checkpoint marks the pulse of occupation
Each settler stake a blade within the soil.
The land forgets the names it used to know
Rewritten with a flag and foreign tongue.

 

We love to hear the cuckoo in the spring
Its call so sweet, so ancient, so benign.
Yet even in its song there lives deceit—
For cuckoo means not only bird, but mad.
And mad indeed is this relentless creed
To steal, to kill, and call it self-defence
To praise the thief and cage the ones who mourn.

 

A cuckoo feeds on what it did not earn
Then sings its song as if it were its own.
But songs can’t bury bones beneath the stones
Nor silence all the mothers left to mourn.
This is no tale of equal weight or war—
This is erasure, wrought in steel and flame.

Let not the myth out-sing the mourning dove
Nor justice bow before a nesting lie.
For those who claim the nest, yet kill its young
Shall be remembered not for peace—but crime.
A legacy of ashes, smoke, and graves
Their name etched not in glory—but in shame.