Framed by torn wire,
smiles escape the camera,
but questions sneak out of their beady brown eyes.
If there’s a God,
why does he craft for them this hell,
punishing abandoned children
in measures unequal to their slender, immature selves?
Big people crack loud and evil like thunder,
but relay no message worthy of their proximity to the heavens;
Instead their actions demonstrate dry aims,
maybe more like a ruler without humour,
or who’s well of tears dried up in a drought.
And so those with rifles to back their claims,
to the lusciousness of life’s juice,
carry on as if unloved children are the undead.
They don’t see the questioning eyes,
often wishing for water,
but never wishing for war,
just staring dejectedly at the dusty horizon,
waiting for deliverance by some mighty force.
Face up to the wire, or face down in the desert,
they are forgotten victims of a merciless fight.