When objects are transported we take care,

Imprinting the word ‘fragile’ on the box;

So when they are dispatched to who knows where,

They are preserved from damage and from knocks.

 

But when it’s people threatened by our strikes,

We never stick a label on their backs;

Presuming they form part of our dislikes,

We offer no protection from attacks.

 

Perhaps a living package is worth less

Than goods with value in the market place;

War’s follies make it harder to express

The fragile blessings of the human race.