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 For the United Nations November 20, 2002 The Iranian Lost child, blinks blue eyes, hot tear flows, as billion dollar bombs engulf ten cent shacks in flames and the once-glittery dreams of honorable men settle down like dust, enveloping the silent society, as the sun burns to ashes, leaving nothing behind but a whisper of quickly-fading light. Misery clings to his soul like a heavy wet uniform being bombarded by bullets of reddish raindrops. Chunks of metal crunch, cracking open beneath his powdery skin, that is boiling in the night. Hands latch onto his legs, smelling of roasted flesh, clawing at his feet, leaving fingerstains of pomegranate juice on his body, as he drags himself on, praying for the rain to fall.. November 8, 2002
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