Childish pencils

He kissed his butterfly goodbye,

 freed his swing hanging from

His grandfather’s old apple tree

And embraced the wind perfumed

with his grandmother’s lullaby

That  was watching  him

walking away

With a prayer on her trembling lips.

It’s a land where boys

Chase death not dreams,

It’s a land where roses

Are colored with crimson ink

not childish pencils.

Now and then an epic hero

Arises from the tormented  heart of

A  little Palestinian boy.

Written by arabian roses

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