The planets welcomed my birth, and it was always so clear to me that they could assert a certain influence over my human affairs. But out here in a war the children come without celestial influence, nothing but a wish that they had never been born. Out here you learn what it is you are made of. It was pink on the inside and it hurt. Children are so cheap; they belong to us so little. If children are the people we make, shame on you all. How dare you bring them into the world?
I see the child, child of war, child of life; walk with broken feet these streets of death. To grow up knowing there was nothing more this lonely planet could take away than that which had already been lost. Little ones in pain by this mans world. Been bent over toilet seats by soldiers, by appalling businessmen fattened as friends, as savages on little souls. Left to whimper on the floor, left unable to feel anything but his tiny surge of worthless power. Body broken, cartilage torn, hidden privileges no longer yours to keep. And remember the smell, their disgusting smell, such that a child cannot become, and some soldiers even wore vile cologne as if they had some need for you to find them attractive. Some filmed what they did to you to gratify some other need. Forced to swallow where sweets should be. Been subjected to a place the creative mind cannot even begin to be found. The non-fiction human is hard to believe and harder to imagine. Are you no more a scrunched-up little kid than the next one? Is this your inner hour my child? Is this what they make you do? Is this what life has in store for you? Have you learned to take what solace you could from this? Does pleasure still exist even if you have never known it? Is every child special except you? I hear you little ones, I hear you say that you do not know what the question is, but the answer is always sex.
But if you can hold on there is a chance it can improve, even a child knows this. They have fresh humanity. Even from a life of bondage, hunger and war; life makes way to reiterate its promise. And then one day you remember to ask another, “And you too my friend, are you ok?” And very soon from beneath the war, beneath the blankets that hide you, you will hear me say,
“It’s ok little one. It’s over now, I’m here”. And I will find the food that you have been starved of. Nothing shall pass your lips now unless you require it.
How dare you pray for the children! There is no action of this earth more worthless and condescending than this. Prayer believes in no one but itself. It is a poor and worthless substitute of intention; it carries your empty soul in lies. How can the terms of prayers for another become the universal action, the flattering symbol of care, love and compassion for mankind? Better throw a penny in the well and wish. Prayer’s only use is to make those who wield them feel the strength of its properties when of course the magic is none. Prayer says more about the person who prays than ever the prayer target. How arrogant of you to believe that you have the power to communicate with the highest power of all. How dare you pray for the children!