To our Syrian children

You heard the bells,

And soon

Your tiny hands and tiny chin

Met the ground

And then you said,

Words beyond your grasp

Uttered in generations and

Generations passed

Echoes in the city

Echoes of words

You cannot grasp

Your tiny lips

That makes your sky wide smile

You whisper words you cannot grasp

Then a sound

More of a roar

Much louder than the bells

The booms and blasts,

And bellows heard throughout

You cannot grasp

And soon the air

Is thin, so thin

You cannot breathe

Your lungs they burn

                A colored dream

                Of red and ash

But you’re wide awake

                You’re standing there

You wail

You cry

Your eyes are swollen

Those big blue piercing eyes

Are bloodshot now

And one by one

No, by tens perhaps

Bodies drop

                On dirt and dust

And as you twitch

And lie with them

Those you played with

On rare calm morns

Their tiny hand you held

Their tiny lips you sang with

You twitched

And twitched

And twitched with them

                As if a dance

And when the pain

Cannot be bore

When you cry

But with tears no more

                The air escaped one final time

                You cannot hear the wails, you cannot feel the sore

You cannot hear no more

The words you cannot grasp

And they who killed you

They’ll fall on ground again

And say the words you haven’t grasped

                They have heard those words too much perhaps

                But they did not want to really grasped

Your blood was the price

Of blood owed by generations passed