From the Diary of an Almost 4-Year Old
by Hanan Mikhael Ashrawi 

Tomorrow the bandages will come off,
I wonder, will I see half an oven? Half an apple?
Half my mother's face with my one remaining eye?
I did not see the bullet
But felt its pain exploding in my head,
his image did not disintegrate.
The soldier with his big gun and steady hands.
And the look in his eyes I could not understand.
I can see him so clearly with my eyes closed,
It could be that inside our heads.

The wounded child

We each have one spare set of eyes
To make up for the ones we lose.
Next month, on my birthday,
I'll have a brand new glass eye
Maybe things will look round and fat at the middle.
I gaze through all my marbles,
They make the world look strange. 

I hear a nine-month-old has also lost an eye,
I wonder if my soldier shot her too,
A soldier looking for little girls who look him in the eye.
I'm old enough, almost four,
I've seen enough of life
But she's just a baby
Who didn't know any better.