Colin F. Jones
You cannot see the people moving,
The sea stops and becomes so still,
Faces are frowned, disapproving,
Those the bombs will maim and kill.
We hear not the far off cries of dying
Beyond the concussion of our guns.
We do not see the red blood drying,
Nor the Mothers crying for their sons.
We stand aloof of this foul madness,
In muddy pits behind sandbag walls,
Filled with elation instead of sadness,
As another steel missile upon them falls.
Yet some rogue shell misfired and hapless,
Sweeps through the soul; and there it stalls.
~ 2 ~
What was the purpose of the shelling?
What did the falling bombs achieve?
Spectacular, oh yes, and compelling,
Men to question what to perceive.
Is this the way of life and living,
As god would have us all believe,
Is this what we call loving and forgiving?
Is this the way freedom is achieved.
Why do you have a gun in your home mister?
Why don’t you trust your neighbours and friends,
Are we really all brothers and sisters?
Or do we like to dream and just pretend.
As we ask ourselves who we are killing,
As we attack what we should defend.
©Copyright August 19, 2009 by Colin F. Jones