WHEN THE BOMBS COME
I HEAR THE MUSIC PLAYING, I see my family laughing,
My two younger sisters play in the kitchen,
Father is smoking out in front telling his friends how brave he was,
Mother is cooking and joking with my brothers.
I hear the music playing, the baby is giggling,
My grandmother is frowning, dinner may be late,
Tomorrow we may go to school and meet our friends,
Tonight I must clean the dishes, it is my turn.
I hear the music playing, and something more,
My sisters stop playing and look up,
Father puts out his smoke and looks up,
Grandmother begins to yell, cry, and run.
I hear the music playing and watch the roof move towards me,
My two younger sisters are ripped apart, playing no more,
My father is burning, screaming, and falling,
The beam is on me and I have lost my arm.
I hear the screaming and the cries, but not the music,
I feel the pain and cannot see, a bomb has hit,
I wonder if I will see my friends tomorrow,
I wonder if I will see my friends tomorrow.
I wonder if I will,
I wonder if
Who Will Cry This Day?
A hand resting upon the dust, tiny and young,
Pointing up to the gods, fingers so red and still,
A scorpion watching with raised poisonous tail.
Who will cry this day, mother no,
In the house by the bed , oh so red,
She would weep for the hand, but for dead.
Who will cry this day, father no,
In the field near the tree, oh so sad,
He could weep this day, but no.
A hand that was once used to dance,
Pointing to boys and laughing at last,
She was sweet, like a virgin Madonna.
First came the noise, whistling at the birds,
Pushing clouds away and dropping,
Then that pressure, so much and hot.
A head that turned never to respond,
Eyes that froze on the sun for last,
Legs who danced but not this dance.
Presidents smile and wear new war suits,
Ministers speak of freedom,
Citizens cheer and wave this day.
I will cry for a child this day?