The children of the Middle East dream just like mine,
they long and wish for play-times sublime.
where skipping and hopscotch beckon a smile,
and the end of a rainbow begs to beguile.
Pretty long lashes on cherubs soft eyes
wake in a panic as a bomb smokes the skies.
The trauma of war-time ends a sweet dream
for a Middle East child as their peace turns to scream.
The children of the Middle East breathe just like yours.
but their smoked-air's inferior and deadly of-course.
And the mother's of The middle East cry as they see
their small darling children die endlessly,
their babies clutch close as angry missile roar
above the heads of trembling souls fleeing from war.
The children of the Miiddle East bleed as ours do
while violent explosions destroy their homes too.
Mortar and bricks crushing many lives
broken forever is one who survives.
And the children of The Middle East can't understand
how we watch in our silence at the slaughter of their land.
Share
Print
Save
Follow
Regis. 🙏🌸🦋🌳
Your poem has described the angst of those who are in the line of fire beautifully.
Unfortunately, few will forgive and it may harden and force young people to grow up too soon and hate the other side for no other reason than simple revenge.
Ron
Sandie