' 7-year old shot dead in Gaza', said the paper
As Sir Henry carefully unfolded the 'Daily Telegraph'
And straightened the specs on his nose
On that misty November morning.
And later that evening, he did take care
To make a mention of it
To his high-brow colleagues
At the Governor's banquet.
Sir Henry was generous enough to express his concern
In that charming statement,
And the twist of his brow,
The choice phrases and measured words
Left an impression on his friends__
They all quoted it the next day.

And Madame did not forget mentioning it to her friends
Who tossed their heads from side to side,
In a winning affectation of sorrow,
Muttering 'how sad', over the chink of champagne glases
And the babble of Honourable Ladies
Enjoying themselves very much at a party
In Washington city.

And nobody, nobody knows
That the stars that glistened in his eyes
When he used to smile
Carried little hints of childhood dreams;
That his laughter used to tinkle
With the mischief of puerile schoolboy jokes;
That the boys used to call him 'chubby' at school
And envied his expertise at making paper planes;
That he knew his numbers till 20
But got stuck at 21,
That Aaminah used to make apple pies for him
Every Saturday morning.

Nobody, nobody knows
That a mother lost her world that night
As the fireball hit her little one;
As he lay writhing in pools of blood;
That her slient screams echoed in the still night
And shook the mighty heavens;
That Aaminah would eat her pies
Alone
On Saturday mornings;
That the little sandcastle he made yesterday__
That little fragment of a child's dream of human life__
Would be washed away in the surging tides tomorrow...
Nobody, nobody knows.