And the children came running

The sand sparkled like sun struck dimonds flitting to every door. 
The wind danced lazily on the glassy water begging it for more.
The smells and sounds were calm and mute as if watching with bated breathe not bothering too much that soon there may be death.
And the children came running, 
                       running, running 
The children came running, running along the sand.
 

Eight bubbly bouncing boys who were off school this day. 
Had grabbed their balls and kissed their mums while running off to play.
Two tall, six short with hair at every angle.
Cut a loud path as they ran out in their jandles.
And the children went running, 
                         running, running 
The children went running, running off to play.
 

The bomb-riddled buildings lay strewn everywhere.
Twisted and torn, burnt and scorned, bare.
For all families who had lived and laughed, grown and danced, 
had left their ghosts alone in blown light shades broken on the floor.
And the eight boys came flying 
                                  flying, flying
The eight boys came flying, flying like hues of bright rainbows from the past.
 

As they tore down towards the sea dust rose around them one, two, three.
Like a storm being set free, rising from the atrocities, by four, five, six feet running on the bomb-riddled streets.
The bomb-riddled streets where the living dead meet.
And the seven, eight, feet came running, 
             running, running
The seven, eight feet came running, running through to play.

The fishermen sat on their boats looking into the bay.
They had watched the bombs falling on the shore this day.
And knew that they would fall on you anytime you were caught unaware.
Even though it was said that only soldiers had to beware. 
That if you weren’t a solider you were safe everywhere.
The fisherman knew that may not hold true.
Yet all they could do was sit and stare.

As their feet struck the Dimond hinted sand.
The warship whistle blew, fire rang loud and hit true.
And all they could do was lay dying in the sand.
As the fisherman screamed loudly towards the land.
And the children’s ghosts went flying,
                                flying, flying
The children’s ghosts went flying, flying away from here.

On the days where the wind turns quiet and mute.
And the sun strikes true to sand bellow.
The sounds of the boys running one, two, three.
The joyous sounds of happiness runs through this desolate town.
The joyous sounds of boys come running
                            running, running 
The boys come running, running down to play.