A baby sleeps tight under the bow of an ancient olive tree. Nablus 2002.
In Palestine, Israel, Syria, or Iraq
Too many babies are born in a shack
Some in a palace and some in a tent
I’m writing this poem in order to vent
Showered in bullets and bombs, instead of teddies and toys
Their life won’t be anywhere like, our own wee girls and boys
In the streets and in the rubble, the corpses have that smell
That remains with you forever, reminding you of that time you were in hell
Daddy’s long dead, and mummy’s left to fend
Yet she won’t stop fighting for a morsel that she’ll send
To her children first before thinking of herself
As she looks around the shack
Not a scrap on the shelf
The Western world doesn’t care.
How are my shares doing today?
Our society on a Friday, Saturday or Sunday are mainly off to pray
We can live here together, no matter the club in which we belong
My club’s better than yours…we all sing that very same song
I’m of mum and dad’s religion, because when I was small
They dragged me to their club, and I had to sit there in that sacred hall
Listening to indoctrination, from an old man of God
As he reads his Sunday sermon, and I’m expected to be awed
Way back then It wasn’t for me.
And now decades later, I still agree
But if it allows people to have the right values to be good
Then why can that mother no longer find food?
We’re all living in a time where wars should be in the past
I should never have to wait, to hear the name of the Gaza child…who stands last
Bob Shepherd 