Bombs are getting more frequent
The crops are failing, the animals are dying
I dream of flying
Seeing the world at my feet
Up there it is peaceful
At eight years of age, I am comfortable with the possibility of death, so long as heaven awaits me
With a defeated face and a hopeful heart
We walk, mother and daughter to the shrine
My father built it, a the priest was house arrest
Kneeling on pebbles we pray the Angelus each day
Asking Our Lady to stop the war
Most days I don't see the point
But at eight, I don't have the wisdom of a priest, a sense of duty like a father, nor a heart like a mother
