Age Will Not Weary Them, Nor Will Condemn Them the Years

Civilians pay a staggering cost for the violence

Outside the sun is hot, and the world glares upon the innocents. Song has left our lips — laughter gone from our voices.

Within the quiet room, I think of the unsuspected, asleep peacefully in their beds to be awakened by evil and death. This is not war.

This is slaughter.

Are we the masters of our faiths, designed by our will? Not when darkness lurks at our doors, justified and cloaked by excuses and a rationale intended for death and destruction.

Israel a mother to her children

Time will not let them grow old, as we are left behind:

Age will not drain, nor the years judge them.

At the sinking of the sun and in the morning

We will pledge them to memory…

Babies, children, elderly…all innocent

Israel, a mother to her children,

mourns for her fallen, for her injured.

She mourns for the flesh of her flesh, bone of her bones.

For the spirit of her spirit,

the mouthless dead

Across our dreams

Somber Death

Chant sorrow up into immortal realms,

Is there music amid misery?

Is there glory that sparkles upon our tears?

They were young,

Upright of limb, innocence of eye, steady and luminous.

Steadfast to the end against odds uncounted,

fallen with their faces to the foe.

They lived, felt, saw sunset aglow,

loved and were loved,

now they lie

Babies, children, men, women

The innocents

They will grow not old, as we left to grow old:

Age will not weary them, nor will condemn them the years.

At the fading of the sun

As the stars that twinkle in times of our darkness,

To the end, to the end, to the end, they remain.

In the end, we will remember them.