Memoirs of the dEad

Man's intellect have in many cases been a gleaner's scythe for destruction; most often, of precious children lives--ambers coated in bloodbath. Sirens of tragedy, a phenomenal red scare repeating itself perpendicular to history, mourning its constant shadow. 
Unrest in the M.E between Arabs and Israel would always end alike-- destruction.

• I made this poem-blog as a tribute to innocent children's lives shed and unsung.

AMBER OF DEATH VALLEY

I

Glory be heavenly dweller

Of this ruined tabernacle

Thy glory of ember glow

Hallowed be thy cuddling softness

You're magnified, dweller in amber's ruin

II

In the stillness of chasm's rage

Amidst the debris lil Susie curled

In fetal kneel

On thistled grit

Her little sobs

My incense be

III

On meadow's lair she lay

On shackled feet abled

Lil Susie in her last twitch

Of struggle not but gratitude

A smile plastered last

As she glows

Princess of chasm's deep

Ever the charm of death valley

chorus

Sweet dreams lil princess

May the day's shiver be thy dreams' comfort

Sweet dreams lil Susie

Thou princess, prey of nightfall's crest

In sweet melody, oh what shackle worn?

Where feet's shackle shorn

Sleep now where rest is due

Sleep now oh

Nightfall too is sparkling gem

Princess of death valley

Lil Susie, charm of the chasm's deep

SLeep til eternity be

**

Excerpted from this site--> here

So they are real. Dead children, killed by an Israeli missile while still in their pyjamas and the sort of clothes suited to playing in the street. The western media has chosen not to show them. But they are all over the media in the Middle East. Is this a cultural difference about death – or a sensitivity (justified or otherwise) that images of dead children are easily conscripted as political propaganda? Nothing can express the horror of war more viscerally than such images. They arrived before me on the same screen that I have previously been writing a letter and playing a silly computer game. My initial reactions were as much physical as emotional. It was as if I didn't know how to process the emotional change that spiked through my body. Later, my own sleepy boy found it puzzling that Dad had just crawled into bed with him.

*image from this site--> here