Moon Over Gaza by Naomi Shihab Nye

I am lonely for my friends. They liked me, trusted my coming. I think they looked up at me more than other people do.

I who have been staring down so long see no reason for the sorrows humans make. I dislike the scuffle of bombs blasting very much. It blocks my view.

A landscape of grieving feels different afterwards. Different sheen from a simple desert, rubble of walls, silent children who once said my name like a prayer.

Sometimes I am bigger than a golden plate, a giant coin, and everyone gasps.

Maybe it is wrong that I am so calm.

— Tiny Journalist by Naomi Shihab Nye (Page 19)