The young Palestinian boy puts on his dead fathers shirt which is worn,
He tries sewing together the two parts of his mum's heart which has been torn.
He wishes to speak to his fathers ghost in hope of becoming a man,
But he keeps coming back to this mound of sand.
He kisses his little sisters bloodied knuckles,
He no longer hears her laughter or chuckles.
His little brothers toys are stained red,
Just like the sheets on his broken bed.
He dreams of seeing his country's beloved olive trees,
But from this poisonous soil, they will not yield,
He dreams of no longer seeing these soldiers or the weapons which they wield.
He dreams of a world where children like his little brother and sister don't have to grow up under a chemical sky,
A world where women like his mother would never have to cry.
He is just a boy,
The stones that he throws are merely toys,
His dream is but a dream,
Which along with his childhood and paperboat have been carried away in a bloody stream.
Nasirah Kathrada © 2018