Children in the Gaza Strip

This war is not like any other.
They killed the children.
Their tanks stamped on their bellies,
on their broken knees.
Their soft hands were covered with scars,
their smooth faces won't ever age.
Their pretty plaits and ponytails
are not swaying in the breeze.
They flew F15s to ravish them
from their mothers,
to cut short their lives as
if they were daisies or wildflowers.
They used rare pens, pencils
to erase trees, crops, olive groves,
the sky, the beach, the villages,
 the streets,
the Palestinians in the Gaza Strip.
The children were marked as military targets,
enemies less than one meter tall,
so many haven't learned  to walk,
wearing nappies,
drinking milk,
crying disconsolately.
Their pockets were filled with marbles,
colourful wrappers, pebbles,
and sea shells.
The Israeli soldiers are fearful,
 terrified. They know
the children will grow up one day.
One day.
Descend where they play,
pull them out from the rubble,
unbury them, wash their faces,
clean their noses,
stretch their clothes, help the children
 stand up on their own two feet.
If they collapse,
help them stand 
again,
and again,
and again,
don't let them collapse
on the ground,
on this muddy earth,
so rendered in sorrow.