Trump's Warpath: Looming Bombs Over Iran

Trump's Warpath:  Looming Bombs Over Iran 

Photo: commons.wikimedia.org by Sonia Sevilla, https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/

Флаг Ирана

Nancy O'Brien Simpson

The President’s voice crackled through the receiver, static lacing the line like the prelude to a storm. His words carried a dangerous impatience, a hunger barely disguised beneath the veil of diplomacy. “If they don’t make a deal, there will be bombing,” he declared, the phrase not as a warning, but a promise, eager, almost gleeful. It landed like the first rumble of thunder before the downpour, an inevitability he seemed determined to fulfill. “Secondary tariffs too,” he added, but the words were an afterthought, a feint—his mind was already elsewhere, already soaring over Tehran with steel wings and fire.
Across the ocean, Tehran knelt in prayer beneath the dusk, dust and devotion mingling into something ancient, unbreakable. President Masoud Pezeshkian turned to his advisors, his voice steady, unmoved by the threats that roared across the ether. “No direct negotiations,” he said, and the words were not defiance, but resolve, the weight of history pressing down on the room. “But the path of indirect talks remains open.” A sliver of light, a barely cracked door—but did it matter when the man on the other end of the line wasn’t looking for a way out, but a way in?

Washington bristled. The President, unbowed, drummed his fingers against time itself. Treaties had been made and shattered, negotiations dangled and dismissed. But now, the air was thick with something more, something darker. He leaned over the Resolute Desk, gaze fixed not on the maps before him, but beyond them, to the fiery spectacle he seemed eager to unleash. His words burned through the room. "If they strike, we strike back—great force, great force." The repetition wasn’t just emphasis; it was anticipation.

Steel birds waited, their wings folded in patient menace. The desert night whispered with the song of engines ready to rise, to strike. Diplomacy, negotiation—these were footnotes in a script he was already rewriting. The war drums beat in his chest, the scent of conflict thick in the air. The world had heard this story before, seen this movie play out, but never with a lead so eager for the final act.

And so, the game played on. The pieces moved, the clocks ticked, the night stretched long over Washington and Tehran. And in the shadows, unseen hands pressed forward, relentless, toward the inevitable dawn of fire and ruin.