I can hear the gasping of a dying child
covered in dusty rubble,
even though there is a howl occupying my ears.
The flaming metal of their incendiary bombs
throws up clouds of smoke
that mingle with the dust, and obscure
the worst of the horrors.
Give thanks that you are spared of those horrors,
be glad you are unaware of the children
who cannot imagine a future
where they can be guaranteed of anything,
except the whistle of the bombs,
as they descend on the innocent,
the jagged shriek of the rifle fire as it rips
another child apart,
and the clatter of the ceasless treads
of the lumbering bulldozers,
that level whole communities.

Nothing that we are
can be allowed any peace.
We only wish to be,
to them our being is an outrage.