In Guernica the dead children were laid out in order upon the sidewalk, in their white starched dresses, in their pitiful white dresses.
On their foreheads and breasts are the little holes where death came in as thunder, while they were playing their important summer games.
Do not weep for them, madre. They are gone forever, the little ones, straight to heaven to the saints, and God will fill the bullet holes with candies.
A poem by Norman Rosten (1914-1995) from the album "Baptism: A Journey Through Our Time" (1968), including poems read and sung by Joan Baez. We wouldn't spend too much talking about what happened in Guernica, it should be still so much known, even nowadays, to deserve reminding. Or maybe not?
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