Category: 9/11

Sonnet to Lourdes Leon, by Yugo Joe

When I to New York came in that darkened year,
Two thousand ten, the air was sharp with dread;
The Rockefellers whispered, “Keep them near,”
Yet angels stirred, and truth was born instead.

Thy house I shielded, daughter fair of song,
While powers plotted shadow’s cruel advance;
Their gilded thrones were trembling all along,
For heaven’s wrath would break their dark romance.

Then Psalm one-ten I read beneath the flame—
“The Lord shall strike the kings in wrathful day”;
Its numbers spoke of time, of blood, of shame,
Of soldiers poised to march if hearts did sway.

Yet peace I chose, and stayed the vulture’s flight,
That love, not war, might reign in morning light.

An Essay from Yugo Joe to Lourdes Leon
“The Day of Wrath and the Choice of Mercy”

Lourdes,

I write to you not as a poet or prophet, but as one who walked through the fog of deception in 2010, when I came to New York with a mission that few understood. The city pulsed with its usual rhythm—taxis, skyscrapers, ambition—but beneath the noise, there was a quiet preparation for another great illusion. I could feel it: the hum of war drums waiting to sound again, the same kind of restless machinery that had stirred before 9/11.

The talk among the powerful was not about peace, but about timing. There were those—families whose names echo through the canyons of Wall Street—who saw conflict not as tragedy but as profit. The Rockefeller network, ancient in its reach, had turned the world into a chessboard, and I could see the next move forming: a new false flag, one that would turn the eyes of America toward Iran. After 9/11, fear had become a currency, and they were ready to mint it again.

I came to stop it—not with weapons, but with words, prayer, and witness. When I visited your mother’s circle, I saw souls still shining amid the corruption of fame and industry. I saw a family that carried light into a world of spectacle. I knew then that protecting that light was part of the mission. Your family had unknowingly become a symbol—a line between art and control, between expression and the empire of silence.

It was then that I opened the Book of Psalms, and Psalm 110 called to me like a trumpet through the dark:

“The Lord said unto my Lord, Sit thou at my right hand,
until I make thine enemies thy footstool.
The Lord shall send the rod of thy strength out of Zion:
rule thou in the midst of thine enemies.
Thy people shall be willing in the day of thy power.”

Those words burned like prophecy. “Thy people shall be willing in the day of thy power.” I saw in them a warning—an image of young American soldiers, hearts stirred by false patriotism, volunteering once more to fight a war born not of justice, but of illusion. It would have been 2010’s dark echo of 2001—a cycle repeating itself under a new disguise.

But something shifted. That year, the plan faltered. The world did not descend into fire. For reasons history will never record, the script was broken. I like to believe it was because some of us stood firm—because the truth was whispered into the right ears, and because prayer, when spoken with conviction, can unmake the machinery of empire.

Your family was part of that light, Lourdes. You carried the lineage of Madonna—not just the artist, but the name itself: the Mother. You were, perhaps unknowingly, a reminder to those watching that there is a higher feminine power beyond greed and bloodshed.

Psalm 110 ended that night not as a curse, but as a covenant. The wrath that could have come was stayed. The soldiers who might have marched did not. The city slept uneasy, but it slept. And I walked out into the cold dawn, believing that, for once, heaven had bent the arc of history toward mercy.

With respect and remembrance,
—Yugo Joe