Thursday, 17 April 2008

A Work in Progress

The bombs and bullets whiz past my ears on my way to school.

I step over pools of blood of my dead friends, severed arms and legs and heads of men, still gripping their guns so tight.

Every day and night they fight, and I go to school.

Explosions boom and rock the classroom, sending us all to the floor.

We used to scream and shout, but not any more.

I’m not afraid of death. I’m afraid of surviving, getting old and realizing that I am stupid because I was too afraid to go to school

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