A Boy from another Gaza

It was over, the war had ended,

as I sat on the lawn with my Grandmother.

It was spring and the daffodils were out,

in all their magnificent splendour.

Some had been planted around,

the remains of the air raid shelter.

I peered inside the darkened chamber,

where my family had spent many a night.

A musty dank interior of four bunk beds,

where we had slept or tried to.

My grandfather had plans to dig it out,

and create a rockery of plants and flowers.

I looked upwards to the sky and saw a plane,

a bomber, a bomber, I shouted aloud.

The bombers have gone was the reply,

they won't be coming back anymore.

I sat and pondered about the war,

about nights of being bombed.

Why should people who don't even know us,

want to kill us when we had done nothing wrong?

I asked my grandmother 'why?' and she replied,

they were angry with us she said nonchalantly.

Don't worry son, they will soon rebuild,

all that they destroyed and all will be made new.

I thought of our city, its centre,

where ruined buildings still stood.

A present reminder but soon to be cleared away.

From years of being bombed we were now,

short of food and coal. We were rationed.

We had little money and clothes were repaired,

times were hard and our home was a prefab,

constructed on a bomb site.