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This land is mine,
my vibrant playground.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
With the other ten thousand children of the neighbourhood,
We used to run about.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
We’d tease Mr. Ali at his old shop,
He’d pretend to chase us with a broom.
We had no fear.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
School was fun, with friends and games,
Our teacher Fatima knew all our names.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Chalk, and dreams,
of a world beyond conflict,
beyond the suffering and screams.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Today, the sky was sunny,
I was on the balcony admiring our olive tree.
But in a flash,
the sky roared.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I felt really scared.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I have already lost half of my friends.
Maryam, Peter and Mahmoud.
Under the rubbles of their homes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Maryam, the little artist, with colors in her heart,
Her canvas remains blank, torn apart.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Peter, was going to be the next priest,
of our 800 years old church, now he lies under the altar.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Mahmoud, the future doctor, who promised to heal,
now, is just remains.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Now I am also gone.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Five thousand dreams,
now whisper in the wind.
In what world is this fine?<\/p>\n\n\n\n
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?<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I guess it is too late now.
We are all playing in heaven.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n