Those who have died,
Caught in the cross-fire,
Going, or trying to go,
About their daily lives,
Have never known why they died,
Not then, and not now.
That has not changed,
Perhaps it never will.
And collateral damage—
Such a pretty phrase for such
Devastating, mindless deaths—
Has always been part of war.
But those who kill, at least,
Had known, once, why they died,
For land, or wealth, or faith,
Or sheer bloody-minded revenge.
The blank, hateful eyes of these boys,
Seen behind masks or sighting down
The greasy barrels of gleaming guns,
Have only anger in them, and despair,
And a blind, unrelenting hatred,
Do they know why these people have had to die?
(It feels somehow fake and inadequate to write this, because I'm sitting at home, and have never faced such horror. And have no right, perhaps, to try this. But it's all I can do, and I can't not do it. Please gods, let at least some of those people live.)
28 November 2008
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5 comments:
Touching.Really quite apt under given circumstances.
No wonder you 'll feel for them..for some of US...after all those who can hate with conviction can love with passion...
@storyteller,
I'm not sure whether or not to say thank you, but I'm glad, I suppose, that this meant something to you.
@Telemachus,
Which are you saying, that I hate with conviction, or love with passion?
i like the "despair" in the 20th line. also, why haven't you broken this down into stanzas? there are very clear thematic turns.
@monidipa,
hadn't thought about it. Just, watched some of the news this morning, and couldn't not write something.
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