Look into their eyes, rulers of the Earth:
there, beneath the ashes, childhood still breathes.
In Gaza, the rain weeps upon fragile tents,
while winter wraps its fingers around innocent dreams.
The wind carries the cries of forgotten children,
the night becomes a blanket woven with fear;
and hope, a wounded bird with broken wings,
searches for a sky that no longer appears.
Behind golden windows, your children sleep;
beneath torn shelters, theirs tremble and weep.
For you, a blanket is an ordinary thing;
for them, it is the warmth of an entire spring.
Tell me, what has become of the human heart?
Have compassion and conscience drifted apart?
What is the worth of prayers spoken above
if suffering receives no answer of love?
Tears have no borders, hunger has no name,
a child’s fragile heartbeat is everywhere the same.
No flag can measure the worth of a life;
no faith should divide us in moments of strife.
One day, history will remember this hour,
not the splendour of wealth, nor the arrogance of power,
but every life abandoned, every dream denied,
every hand that reached out—and every hand that stayed aside.
So look into their eyes, and dare not look away.
For childhood is not a debt the world can make them pay.
A child should never beg beneath a foreign sky
for bread, for warmth, for shelter, or a reason not to cry.
And if we cannot protect the innocence of a child,
what remains of humanity within us?
