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To all the little children, who have been brutally slain,
Who couldn’t’t defend themselves, as bombs fell like rain,
To all who died with fear as their last and only friend,
who couldn’t’t shed a tear, as their lives reached an end.

To every mourning mother, who lost a beloved small child,
Who imagines he’s alive and smiling, as madness and sanity collide,
To the crippled, to the different and weak, who were too obvious to hide,
As the thundering shells of rage, hurt their fronts or maimed their sides.

To the poets who lost their words, while seeing the grim face of death,
When all words lost their meanings, lungs craved for one last breath,
To the lonely, shocked survivor, who struggled under debris,
Only to witness a horrific scene, The wickedest the eye can see,

To the dreamer, to the lover , to the artist, to those remote and forlorn,
Who realized the painful reality, and wished they were never born,
To the cider, the doves, the olive fields, to the power of life I say,
May God bless you and honor you, may you smile somewhere someday.


End

A. L. Gomaa

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