The fractured walls of wickedness in war

Are on display each day at any time.

The morning tittle tattles rise and fall

And poets churn out verses in sweet rhyme,

But somewhere, here or not so far away,

A child is killed by missiles from above,

A mother grieves for her departed son

And husbands weep for what they think was love,

While no one makes the evil men account

For all the hurt and damage they inflict:

The treasures of a life gone up in smoke,

The glee with which a writhing corpse is kicked.

Imagination fades as cities burn;

The days roll by and nobody will learn.