The war goes on
and people die, as
if
we care, as if
they matter more
than
football or
erectile dysfunction.
They are screaming
in the silence of
the news,
they are the children
of war, they are
waiting for us to
notice, for us to
stop killing more.
They are
collateral
damage.
They wait in the
silence after
the battle, after
the
blood has dried.
They sing songs of
what might have been,
of
love, of other
children they loved
who
lost all, children
who
cried alone in their
tears, mommy, daddy
where did you go
why did you leave
me to
cry into the
pillow?
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