Childhood in Palestine

Childhood In Palestine
By Imran Ali

The rubble moves,
The light then soothes,
The eyes of a young boy.

He emerges from dirt,
Only his soul is hurt,
He stands motionless like a toy.

No mother, no father,
Seems darker, and harder,
To imagine this boy with a smile.

His first few years,
Consist only of tears,
Years so not infantile.

Gun shots roar,
Bullets soar,
The boy must play a game,

Of hide and seek,
His chance is bleak,
To stay alive and sane.

No time to cry,
Now he must hide,
In the shadows he will last.

Tear gas rains,
Motionless, he lays,
Watching Palestinians run past.

He sees a mother,
A women of no other,
Holding her precious child.

Tear gas explodes,
To the floor they roll,
Her baby screams painfully wild.

A family was gathered,
As a husband was battered,
His children screaming in fear.

They watched him die,
They could do nothing but cry,
Until they could not shed a tear.

Rockets unleashed,
Houses they seek,
And explode with a deafening sound.

A husband will try,
To shield his wife,
But together they burn to the ground.

For a boy and a girl,
Their room is their world,
But watch it desolate by gun.

They exit through the window,
Their minds still in limbo,
But soldiers will force them to run.

The boy rubs his eyes,
His tears shine like ice,
As he steps into the light.

The soldiers have gone,
But massacre has begun,
Death paints the road bright.

He walks, still concerned,
Food and water, he yearns,
But these are scarce at the time.

For this is a childhood,
Where evil denies good,
A life for a child in Palestine.