Welcome to the bomb shelter capital of the world,
Where blood spills from pushchairs and christens carpets,
And where those left behind are the same as the dead,
Where fear, death and siege is what we preach,
And where tombstones and rubble replace our beds.
Our playgrounds are shell-scarred and littered with shrapnel,
Games are limited to hide-and-seek with gunmen,
Books are charred and teddy bears are stuffed full of dust,
History, strength and power can never re-flower,
While our souls lay broken, succumbing to rust.
My mother raises one and gives another to the ground,
Her tears are never permitted the chance to dry,
Flowers stem from the soil where my brother fell,
Adult tears extinguish childhood fears,
While my father’s cry drones on, numbly as a knell.
Rockets pierced through our protective shell of youth,
In peace time, we reclaim a little of what was stolen,
We rejoice with the demons of our childhood,
Fear and hostility gives way to tranquillity,
Though our innocence is dead, drowned in blood.
By Tyler Turner