What we need to do, is kill the children

See, terrorists, at one time were children. They had teddy bears and sip-cups with milk or juice in them. And they were full with life and looked out on their bomb-torn landscapes and only saw playgrounds. Unexploded bombs were rockets to the moon, and bullet casings were gold nuggets scattered on the ground.

The sky was hot metal blue above the smoking ruins of yellow buildings where once their dad sold taps and sinks and other sundry plumbing supplies. Until the daisy cutter cut the tops off all their friends who looked up when the airplanes came in.

So these children, their brothers, their little sisters, who play in the depleted uranium dirt that is wound in to the length and breadth of ground thereabouts, will some day take up arms and collect bullets like cigarette cards. And they will shoot your young son, who last summer was mowing your lawn for a couple of dollars.

He will die in the dirt, his blood in his hands as he sees the white surround his last sight. So kill them now, now they are five and seven, while they are not watching the latest Pixar movie, not eating burgers in the mall, while they are running from barbed wire castle to minefield den with little gleeful smiles. They are playing.

So we will kill them, as we made them.