Visible

The little child lies on the ground
warmer than his hands,
grown cold. Cold.
Cold stretching, becoming tall,
visible, tall like her father,
cold like her mother,
cold like her older brother.

His fingers lay docile,
his head turned sideways
there is no bed or mattress,
only the bare floor for the warmest
Palestinian child grown cold,
his arms outstretched
as he cannot be held
or hold. It wasn't an earthquake,
nor a cyclone, not even a virus or hunger.
She died so young that age doesn't count,
her torn pyjamas outshining ,
no vital signs,
no mouth -to- mouth,
no resuscitation ,
but bare death, unwritten.
It wasn't God's will,
no an accident or misfortune,
no destiny, no forthcoming.
It was done by men.
Like a spring
her jiggles won’t be preserve
in a glass or a box,
they would not multiply,
not recorded,
not prolonged
I curse you;
I will not forget
I will remember,
I will tell that in October
you decided that life was worthless,
you changed children into rag-dolls,
men into corpses, undressing them
to watch yourselves in the mirror
of your own horror,
and yet you could still
bear the sight of your kind.