- Books, Literature, and Writing
Why have you stolen my dad and my birthday?
(Not far from heads)
By a tiny hand
And the other tiny hand
Grabbed firmly too by a huge wrinkled hand,
Swinging forth and back
In a public street.
Everything seems fine
Weather, people and traffic lights
in the eyes of the child.
All of sudden,
Tough hand slides its grip on the tiny,
Balloons spring up, away flying from the tiny,
Bullet in the chest settled,from a rooftop sent by an Israeli sniper
Birthday present to the tiny.
Weather changes to fog,
People to helter-skelter like chickens cut heads
Traffic lights to red and then to dry stick
Aloft the blue ceiling on the loose
Witnessing the crime.