They came not clad in warlike dress, but ragged hope and threadbare shoes,
Across the tide of salt and dusk where shadowed traffickers enthuse.
No banners flew above their heads, no flags of nation gave them shield,
Just whispered names and crumpled notes and faith too young to yield.
The road was long through thorn and flame, through checkpoints bought and warnings cursed,
Where demons cloaked in prophet's garb sold souls for coin and quenched their thirst.
The jackals bartered dreams for flesh, and hymned their cause in desert tones,
While boys were yoked to caravans and girls were stripped to bone.
Yet even here, through fettered night, a fire unseen by wicked eyes
Burns bright within the weeping child who sees through all the tyrant’s lies.
No chain can crush the will to live, no creeds corrupt what love has sown,
For even when the shepherd sleeps, the lamb is not alone.
So rise, ye watchers at the gate, and forge no peace with crimes profound;
Let not the silken tongue excuse the wail where none should make a sound.
Though evil cloaks itself in cause, and cruelty in righteous guise,
The child still walks, unbowed, unbought, beneath the watching skies.
(By John Shenton)