A cultured boom and a you name it, it was a boom. On one day in 2006 there was a different boom in Palestine and Gaza. It's a poem called boom time, boom time 2006. Just another typical Gaza morning, Jim Rill, Warnow, Bald, Palestinian man, ex-framar, ex-husband, ex-father. Whose voice has been left in his groves, screams, low nonsense, as he busily picks and wraps butcher limbs in tattered rags. Morsh Lagoonz dressed the dead body of the young girl, who, minutes earlier, greeted another customer with a smile. A booted foot is visible and made the twisted rex, shrapnel having severed it from its owner. The market flames, with burning blackened bodies, and all but one of the prostrate, gasps. His last, the swallowed blood steels his air. Later, across the square from inside the high school wall, whales broadcast over the mechanical arms that piss and humbles that dig and scrape and push. By the road, the truck remnants have been cleared to facilitate the umbilical of humanitarian traffic. From over the hill, a drone is heard for the umpteenth time, and to the crane driver, the taxi driver beckons with his one finger turned, anxious and frightened. Every in the afternoon, dreadlocks of illegal phosphorus, chalk the landscape, and cloud their pitiful view, happiness and happy faces have departed. Genevieve, city of convention is furious. On just another Irish day, Jimmy is busy in mid-batter, a small ball, the oval, the ony-ball, and of course the weather. He chops and weighs and wraps, skillet-recon tour, master butcher. The centric early greets all with lovely day greetings, smiles and talks, night talk, with her same age customers. Around 11, the bootage hit the village, and hit the village, clearing the last of the darker sausages and stiff rashes. All but one can't wait for the first swallow of that fizzy drink. Ah, Jesus, I was gasping. Across the road, the pumps require her, and at the garage a few doors down, the canically cranks drift out of the exporge, in tandem with 103 FM, a hiss, a home from a compressor. The last of the trucks are begun by Angela's time, and shortly after the square facilitates treble parrots, people, the uniform school kids. The old-teenth tractor drones down the hill towards the ony-ill. It's driver, a single finger-wavour, anxious for the comfort of solid ground. By early afternoon, thick white clouds have dulled their landscape, and happiness and happy faces have remained. Thank you all.