I ashed into a golden pit of colors white and blue
And stories of the pit arose, telling tales of you(th)
Who – narrates a land that’s lost?
Through fear with words obscured
A mouth of foreign language still,
with hands glistening in olive veils,
with roses rising from the wells.
Kisses along walls and wire, formulating strange desire
Slaughtered by the sun at noon.
Peoples’ steps on ancient stones, leaving them in ruin.
There is this sense of freedom, that no one shall obtain,
When the other high and mighty demands them to abstain.
Ashes spread on holy sites are all that will remain
It’s plain.
A child of thirteen years in red. Shot dead. 7 dead. Civilians with licensed guns rid others of the threat.
A child of thirteen years in red who lived below a golden pit,
A boy with stories of his land
Died on ancient stones, a gun in hand.
A child of thirteen years in red, a land of roots and ruins.