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Their children live
inside the fence,
A violent world; no recompense,
Their way of life is like a bomb,
Explosions lead the way.
And every day, like
those before,
The children rage and go to war,
A world that's harsh instead of calm,
They fight instead of play.
They're taught
before they understand,
That they must die to keep their land,
They never feel like they belong,
With blood is how they pay.
And so they target
those around,
Condemn their bodies to the ground,
While others sing the martyr song,
And throw their lives away.
It's such a
senseless tragedy,
That many die and others flee,
Would they but offer outstretched palm,
They'd see a brighter day.
But while we wish
that it would be,
A better life that they would see,
The bombs still burst; the fight goes on,
And in the ground they lay.
by
David Ronald Bruce Pekrul
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