You hear loud screams. Crying. And the babies hear each other. Too little to understand that the others cry too. Too little to even have expectancy to be picked up. Comforted. Fed.
They cry in pain. There's no sadness. Too little to experience so many emotions. Their bodies hurt for nutrients, for water, for their mother's milk, drying in their breast, under one of the thousands collapsed buildings.
So the little creatures cry and and cry. They hear each other. That's the last thing they hear in this world: each other. And the loud sounds of the bombs from the Forth Reich of The Terrorist State of Israel.
And no one comes to them. They cry and cry and cry and little by little it begins to subside; all that crying. One by one, until only one cries. No one is coming. The IDF has condemned them to death. Their crime is being of Palestinian descent.
I don't believe there's a God of any kind in the universe; except all the ones my fellow human beings invented. Each more murderous than the other. But they need them. I need them too.
With God in your heart you imagine angels coming to take them home. An atheist like me imagine the hungry dogs arriving there. Before they were dead.
And a single thought soothes my soul: Marco Aurélio, they are too little to understand the screams of the ones being eaten alive.
My heart hurts for the Palestinians. And I have no faith in anything. That for an atheist is death itself.
