We played while bullets flew over head.
We play as they collect bodies broken and torn, we didn’t see.
Cooled battlefields are our playgrounds, not cooled for long as hate drifts in and out.
We are still children, our hearts remain, our spirits are not broken, our spirits are bent.
We will one day fight on the these playgrounds that are cooled battlefields.
Our hearts remain as children though not given a chance, we see this world through children’s eyes, we take to the sky and forsake the ground.
Days are still hopeful as flags burn and holes dug.
Smoke draped sunny days are still sunny days, even as mothers wail and dust settles around fresh Earth.
Our hearts remain as bullets fly and ominous skies bring hell fire and grief, we may not make it today, but it’s still day and we have some playing to do.