Antonio Mozeto

Think of the children of Palestine, living orphans
Born orphans, with no future and nothing
Others massacred by bloodthirsty drones and missiles,
Murdered without mercy
From hunger, thirst and bullets
Think of your decapitated limbs
Their broken hearts
Wounds like red poppies
Dried, faded in a dry vase, on a table in a corner of the house
Broken
On some corner that no longer exists
Broken

Don’t forget the red poppy
From the red poppy of Palestine
The same color as spilled blood
Never forget the dried, faded red poppy
Stained with blood
Abandoned
No petals, no red
With nothing