The Story of the Pharaoh of Tel Aviv On a star-embroidered cloth, the holy book lay on his knees, the ruler sat seething on the throne, beaten by his own son. His right eye was blackened. Thus he was no powerful or exalted one! Yet he was the pharaoh of the greatest empire, greater and more dominant than that of a sheikh. Vengeance screamed loudly in his heart, crying out for retribution and masochistic pain. The sick man thought maliciously: "He'll feel all my rage" not my son, but the neighboring country of Iran. Oh, how he rejoiced over the rich spoils, Iran's oil. Ah no, he wanted the whole country, for it had been promised to him 3,000 years ago! The Pharaoh didn't realize he was succumbing to his madness; he thought only of revenge, night and day. He also didn't see the throne sawed through, by his own son. L.M.03.2026 The poem was originally written in German.