The bombs, the cries, the blood, the horrors, Have become his daily life, The happiness, the playground, the school, the warm hug of his mother and father, Is a dream long gone, never to be returned. Five years old, His whole life has seen no warmth but cruel warlord's heart that is so cold, Five years old, He already has fame, a fame not of happiness and wealth, But a fame, that is pooled with bombs and blood and bereavement, Five years old, He hasn't seen the world and yet, has seen the darkest and most cruel horrors of the world. No tears in his eyes, Not a single word is uttered, except for his parents' cries, He feels his wet bloody cheek, Looking at it, he reacts to nothing, He rubs the blood out on his chair, Still, silent like a soulless statue that is dusted out of care. Sweet candy, nutty biscuit, soft and warm clothes, clean water, Are the things that are out of his reach, While the evil, powerful and the rich are ever so ready, To squeeze the blood out of this kid and the many, To crush their whatever left strength, To destroy their hope to many lengths, To survive now means to have a death sentence. Is this what it means to be alive, In a so-called "Modern" world, Where modern weaponry is taking life, And creating scenery of death and painful cries. One has to die one day or the other, But, killing innocents in the name of nation, is a ruthless murder. As the sounds and scene of bombs with death sentence, fly, In front of you is the Boy who did not cry, Nay, it is the Boy who could not cry.