She Lives in Beirut

I saw on the papers, a child, a young girl,
Being carried by her father, in his shaking arms,
Her beautiful eyes will never again unfurl
She'll never walk on the water cold, or the desert sands warm.

Her fate has been sealed, she lives in Beirut.

She was shopping with her parents perhaps, with gifts being smothered,
Thinking about where all the toys, the gifts, to put,
With Hezbollah and the conflict, she was least bothered,
Looking at the doll with the black tie and grey suit.

The missile struck behind her, the paper's they're saying,
As she let go of her father, to hold a pretty doll,
It's frightening to know, there are people for her blood baying,
Entangled in violence's viscious circle that never seems to fall.

Her father, in the picture, uttered one eternal silent scream,
Asking what justice it was to kill an eight year old,
His head and his entire body burst in the seam,
When he realized, his daughter's body was already getting cold.

To be killed at an age which gives innocence it's meaning,
The burning embers in the altar, they proceed to prod
There is nothing more inhumane, nothing more demeaning,
The most damning evidence that there is no God.