| Mohammed-al-Durra: A Child Martyr Saturday, the thirteenth of September, Was to be a day forever to remember, For a Palestinian child who went to buy a car, With his dad left, but could not get very far. The father and child in crossfire were caught, They had to leave the car they had just bought, Hid behind the barracks and cement blocks, Saving themselves from bullets and flying rocks. Mohammed-al-Durra was struck with fear, Only twelve years old and death so near, He could see his dreams come to an end, He thought of his mother, family and friend. ‘Protect me Dad, for love of Allah, please save me,’ ‘They are shooting small children! Don’t you see!’ ‘Don’t worry son, no one shoots a child,’ ‘They are cultured, they call us wild.’ ‘Don’t shoot, don’t shoot,’ he cried, Raising his hand, in vain he tried. Shielding his son from the soldier’s gun, Hoping the soldier won’t shoot his son. Sitting like captives in their own land, Neither a stone nor a gun in their hand. Barbaric zionist aimed and pleasure sought, Pulling the trigger, aiming at the child, shot. The bullet hit the father’s protecting arm, The blood poured forth, red and warm. A zionist soldier with a heart of stone, Fired, ripping the father’s pelvic bone. The next shot hit the child’s abdomen, He slumped dying in arms of his dad. ‘Save me, save me, for love of Allah,’ ‘They don’t’ shoot children,’ you said. The child lay splashed in blood, dead, From his ripped guts he had bled. ‘From his blood will a new Nation rise and stand,’ The mother wailed, ‘My son’s death is life for our land.’ -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |