A childhood heist that stole once more,
Came to your door through a ‘stray bullet’.
Some will call you a ‘collateral wound’,
That never heals and never fills,
But remains stitched to the bearer’s womb.

Some will call you a ‘murder plain’,
Aimed at by an ‘assassin unknown’,
Yet we all know what kills us all,
But none will dare to bare the arm.

Sleep little child in your perpetual dream,
Freed from our immeasurable pain,
Of a pupilage deprived place,
Where playgrounds have hidden mines,
And gardens have unmarked graves.
Where orchards border concertina,
And hilltops have prying eyes.
Where girls drown in waters two feet deep,
Where children are scattered in winds of war.

Sleep little child in your perpetual dream,
Wandering in those meadow lands,
Where shells won’t maim and the bullet won’t aim,
Where we won’t be called just a ‘collateral damage’.

~S~

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