A strip of land
few people, fewer humans.
Guns, missiles, tunnels
looking for the perfect enemy.
Not you, not me
they are the faces on your channels.
Tiny faces, tinier hands.
Some call them children,
the children of Gaza.
Black and grey,everywhere
Red is in abundance too.
They drowned in these colours
stand in contrast to the rainbow above.
Little dreams, littler hopes.
They call them children,
the children of Gaza.
Peace, ceasefires and agreements
are the holidays they get.
Different from the one in Christmas.
They smile their rented smiles
crouched in their homely tents.
Short heads, shorter lives.
We call them children,
the children of Gaza.
