And the way I do it is, I imagine myself in their place;
And when I can hear the bombs rain from somewhere up above in the dead of night, and cower, not knowing where the next will fall,
When I can see the waves which have broken their bounds carry away my neigbours, from my perch on the roof of the now-destroyed house I was still growing up in,
Or I feel on my arms and my cheek, the singeing hairs from the heat of the fire that has now come alive and is devouring my home,
When I can smell the roses,
or taste the peppery spice
all evoked from a still photo,
That’s how I know.