This is the old man that israel hit.

This is the old man that israel hit.

This is the leg that belonged to the old man that Israel hit.

This is the shell that cut off the leg that belonged to the old man that Israel hit.

This is the tank that fired the shell that cut of the leg that belonged to the old man that Israel hit.

This is the Israeli-Russian blondie with broken Hebrew that pulled the trigger of that tank that fired the shell that cut off the leg that belonged to the old man that Israel hit.

This is the Israeli soldier shaven and shorn that made fun of the accent of the Israeli-Russian blondie with broken Hebrew that pulled the trigger of that tank that fired the shell that cut off the leg that belonged to the old man that Israel hit.

This is the officer tattered and torn that had a bet with that Israeli soldier shaven and shorn that made fun of the accent of the Israeli-Russian blondie with broken Hebrew that pulled the trigger of that tank that fired the shell that cut off the leg that belonged to the old man that Israel hit.

These are the sons and daughters and relatives and grandchildren and relatives who almost lost a loved old man that Israel hit by a tank shell fired by an Israeli-Russian blondie with broken Hebrew who pulled the trigger because she got teased by the Israeli soldier who made fun of her accent because he had a bet with the officer whether when angered she pulls the trigger or not.

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4 thoughts on “This is the old man that israel hit.

  1. This is our destiny that we cant escape , and this is the atrocity shown to the whole world which has nothing to reacte with but bloody silence

  2. Sad! I guess you already know how talented of a person you are so I am not going to praise the beauty of this article. I am just sad that it had to be your relative… or a Palestinian… or an innocent for the matter. Why can’t they just shoot themselves up :@

  3. It is very sad… what Gaza must live through. A tribute to the mothers of Gaza…

    Sunset is a woman.
    Sad, alone and brave,
    she holds the dying sun
    in her arms every evening
    and after the sun has breathed its last
    she tiptoes away unseen
    unnoticed to the far
    beyond where other brave women
    wash the blood of shot-down sons
    from white sheets and warm pillows
    at taps that have remained
    unbombed by rockets from the
    north. Then all these sad, brave
    women put their heads
    together and pray.
    For missing sons.
    For dead sons.
    For sons they lost to bullets
    and bullets .
    They mourn
    and pray for
    one sun that
    will not set in blood
    one day.

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