This land is mine,
my vibrant playground.
With the other ten thousand children of the neighbourhood,
We used to run about.
We’d tease Mr. Ali at his old shop,
He’d pretend to chase us with a broom.
We had no fear.
School was fun, with friends and games,
Our teacher Fatima knew all our names.
Chalk, and dreams,
of a world beyond conflict,
beyond the suffering and screams.
Today, the sky was sunny,
I was on the balcony admiring our olive tree.
But in a flash,
the sky roared.
I felt really scared.
I have already lost half of my friends.
Maryam, Peter and Mahmoud.
Under the rubbles of their homes.
Maryam, the little artist, with colors in her heart,
Her canvas remains blank, torn apart.
Peter, was going to be the next priest,
of our 800 years old church, now he lies under the altar.
Mahmoud, the future doctor, who promised to heal,
now, is just remains.
Maryam is killed.
Peter is killed.
Mahmoud is killed,
The olive tree is killed,
and the church is shattered.
It was all just too much.
Now I am also gone.
Five thousand dreams,
now whisper in the wind.
In what world is this fine?
Why don’t they care about me?
Peter was actually blond,
They say his great-grandmother was French,
with sky-blue eyes.
Would it have helped,
if we had shown the world Peter’s face,
instead of mine?
I guess it is too late now.
We are all playing in heaven.
Mom, it is so nice here.
Serene, no cries.
Nobody hates us for no reason,
and nobody is discriminated.
We are all loved and cared for.
Equally.
