Poem | |
Another letter from another tour
In this place in the sand they call Helmand
This will be my last, for you can be sure
To never look back on these Afghan lands
It's been so long since I've felt your embrace
Studied the constellations through your eyes
Found joy in the manly features of your face
Or recovered from our last sad goodbyes
Another two lost, one was my best friend
Before it's me, I pray my leave is soon
My heart is crying out, my hopes descend
Is tomorrow my day, in deathly strewn
I've been praying so hard; surely you're safe
The son I carry will have his Dad's smile
I don't think God would orphan our young waif
You must walk through our door in a short while
The joy in your letter, mother to be
Me a father, soon to be homeward bound
Grow with my kin in the land of the free
To thrive in peace on American ground
I think our boy will be a football star
Perhaps he’s sending a message to Dad
Like Peyton and Eli he’s thrusting hard
To have you and him here, I’ll be so glad
As James was preparing to say goodbye
Boarding the chopper to take him your way
Enemy aircraft dropped bombs from the sky
I regret to say this was James’ last day
Commanding Officer Brannigan
U.S. Armed Forces, Afghanistan
More great poems below...
Poem | |
I want to wear a djellabas.
Blackness engulfing me in its tentlike refuge
veiled in gauze.
Or a burkha of blue with a screen
over my face to hide
I want to wear rope sandals
down a dusty Afghan road on
the warmest of days
with the wind whistling
through the Khyber Pass.
I want to know the language,
taste the food,
gaze at the bearded men I pass
who will not know
I am looking at them.
They are handsome and brave in Kabul.
I want to hear the children
reciting the Koran
in their Pushtu cadence
and play upon a tabir
with a beat of
Poem | |
Sleep with me under the afghan of stars
illuminary milk pouring out of heaven's jars
A storm of sliding satellites colliding can be ours
as we ribbon out our lives in whispered stories.
~Whisking up of ink in your eyes white peppered mint
while our breath entrances frost on the eve of night fall's wrist
We are still intangible, first here, but than a mist
as vagrant as sweet stars in their last glory.
Shoulders hug the trees with their limbs limp silhouette
while we strip translucent star capes to their bows with no regret
Moon beam pure explosions to beget and to beget
the light with which we pine for now in haste~
Sleep with me under the myriads of minds
which slept here before us and whispered in kind
We will be stardust ourselves you will find
as our wings of illusion unravel.
Poem | |
I still have the afghan you made for me all
those years ago mother
Although I have washed the afghan dozens
of times the silver strands are still interlaced
through the yarn
I feel your love and warmth each time I cover
myself with this special afghan.
You are always here with me when I am ill
and covered with my afghan interlaced with
silver strands through the yarn
Yes mother the silver strands are your hair
As you so lovingly made my afghan your hair
fell into the weave left behind when you left this
earth heaven bound
For the Early Mothers Day ~ Contest of P. D.
Written by: Carol Brown
3rd Place Winner
Dedicated to my Mother
Helen Elizabeth Huebner
08/1928 ~ 10/2005
Poem | |
your face did
to place my
no lips for me
to lose my
nor ear to
to hide within
my heart, to
fall in love
I saw by
vision to see
me there with
just a look, as
you stared back
those lips, that
my feelings are
all for not
than a world
away, my beauty
Herat (Herr-Rot) is both an Afghan city and province. Herat City is the capital
of Herat Province located in the western portion of Afghanistan.
Written in Afghanistan -May 2013
More great poems below...
Poem | |
The Little Afghan Girl (Rainbow)
In a rugged land with barren hills,
red poppy fields and winter chills,
lived a tiny girl with wide-set eyes,
who dreamt of life beyond her skies.
Her parents died in a roadside bomb,
she'd seen their names on a white stone tomb.
Her auntie told her "They're now with God."
Yet, belief in God she'd found quite odd.
For what kind of God brings war and pain?
She wondered: "What would be His gain?
If there is a God why can't He see,
all of this hurt inside of me?"
Then one night as she lay sleeping,
a voice was heard as though 'twas weeping.
She called out loud in her soft sweet voice
(her opened eyes had now grown moist),
"Who's there, who's there? I hear your cry.
I sense your pain, please tell me why?"
The voice then spoke so soft and low,
"It is Me my child, I feel your woe.
Please understand this: I love you so!
Just trust in Me, and in my rainbow."
The voice trailed off as she closed her eyes,
sweet dreams held sway until the sunrise.
She arose then stood out in the sun,
a storm had passed, a terrible one!
As she rubbed the sleep out of her eyes,
she looked to the east, to her surprise!
A rainbow stretched from east to west,
she now understood; her parents were at rest.
From that day on the little girl insisted that
the villagers call her Rainbow, and she knew
deep in her heart that one day she would see
her parents again; in paradise! A place where
tribal war and bombs and jihadists and crusaders
no longer exist. Only rainbows and soft pillows
and pastels and good things for all children,
wherever they may be found!
Poem | |
My grapefruit tanned
the five-day flattened
in an olive shag carpet
tracing grandpa Leo's
with one encapsulated
this is the femur, this is
this is the fist, the ring
finger, the soul.
I search for any blunt
white quivering slivers
of Caroline's purported
Huddling behind the
of an old hospital bed,
a framed photo
smoke browned and
wearing my toddler face,
his children choke
this will be yours, my
plate, separate the
an enigmatic language
that hovers in
smoke stretched rings
upon the hallway
I am left
the ceramic cygnet,
and an ivory carved
from his porcelain
that I decipher
through dust fingerprints
one small inheritance of
to his bibelots,
the olive shag carpet,
even cousin Amy's
who was accidentally
left to pasture on an
A silver plated glass cage
image of her past,
she says she will whittle
all of him,
Poem | |
"...when power narrows the areas of man’s concern,
poetry reminds him of the richness
and diversity of his existence...”
--John F. Kennedy
Soldiers of our armed forces,
Iraq, Afghan, Lebanon, many shores,
Light the way like liberty blazing torches
They fight heat, bugs, sand, tough faces,
urban warfare, darkness, crashed doors,
Soldiers of our armed forces
Now Send home change of addresses,
stories, photos, emails, strange places,
Light the way like iron cut by torches
Camouflage faces, wet bloody bruises,
brows sweating, under helmet gushes,
Soldiers of our armed forces
Sleep in sandy humid desert trenches,
thunder blast, bombs dropped, fire fights,
Light the way like laser torches
Loved ones wear yellow broaches,
anxiety, praise, tears, vague smiles,
Soldiers of our armed forces,
Light the way like liberty blazing torches.
Poem | |
I have a friend called Bob Beaubobble
who trains unusual pets to juggle
assorted items frequently fumbled
by freakish fish or octibumbles
This hobby made him mucha dinero
which he put in the bank ‘with interest’ to grow
but while he was filling in all of the forms
One creature escaped from under his arms
Unseen in the dark, in the bank late at night
It bypassed security through the intranet site
And juggled and gambled to its hearts content
playing with our pennies until they were spent
Red-faced officials met the press in a panic
George Bush sent more troops to Afghan and Iraq
World leaders drew circles around toxic debt
then pointed their fingers to the country that started it...
The slimy old salamander sucks his cigar
as he drives to his office in a luxury car.
CEO though all see he's a feckless axolotl
without any shame, just a shed load of bottle.
He's safe in the knowledge, while his bank has been drained
A huge bonus is scheduled to keep him retained
and cash will be pumped from the taxpayers vains
soon he’ll start things all over and gamble again.
Poem | |
ARTIST’S CHOICE –
This old woman –
It’s always a woman
Looking out a window
Why not a man?
No he’s on the
front porch smoking
deep in thought
Looking out a
Is it always summer?
would be so stark
What is she thinking
Surrounded by the
A bible on her lap
or on the table,
Pictures of loved
ones. a neat row on
You can almost hear
the rocker creak,
Almost feel the
afghan wrap her
She’d knitted it
herself once upon a
It was meant for
some dear one now
There must have been
an animal once
A cat is included in
And there are other
relics, knick knacks
Such a lonely aspect
The verdant summer
One senses sacrifice
All her loved ones
Leaving her alone
She occupies the
Thinking not so much
of her painful limbs
But, in the face of
She has been
sacrificed to live
out her life
in a lonely
In the last few I
will guard my
Poem | |
THE RETURN OF PETER PAN…2014
The arch enemy:
((Political Correctness and Health and Safety))
Ladies and Gentlemen: boys and girls. Peter Pan is set to strike again.
A sequel to J.M. Barrie’s classic tale will be published in the very near future, in which Tinkerbell will be replaced by a male fairy named Firefly, the Darling little children are all grown up, Neverland is blighted by pollution and Nana the dog, is sadly dead.
Darryl Ashton has obtained this exclusive interview with Peter Pan to find out what went wrong. Peter says: “What has the world come to when someone like me is no longer allowed in children’s bedrooms? OK, so at first inspection things don’t sound too great.
I am someone who climbs secretly through children’s bedroom windows. I have a friend called Tinkerbell who is, yes, a ‘Fairy’. The two of us tell the little Darlings’ to forget about their parents and come away with us on a big adventure to Neverland. But relax, will you!
Looking’ back I guess my problems really began when I started planning this return trip to Britain after some 100 years. Do you know how hard it is for a guy like me to get the paper work together? By the time Childcare Agencies, Social Services and The Criminal Records Bureau had vetted me, the magic was wearing pretty thin, I can tell you.
Was I self – employed? Or were Tinkerbell and I in a VAT – registered partnership? Did I have a pilot’s licence, which met all compliance standards? Did I have the relevant Visa for tourists from Non – EU countries? Questions, questions! Don’t all these regulations get you down? Anyway, as Tinks and I soon came to discover, Britain has changed beyond all recognition in the years we have been away.
Our first discovery, much to our horror, was Wendy, and her brothers John and Michael, were some time ago taken into foster care. We learnt that their parents, who were in the habit of leaving them in the care of Nana the dog, had been stripped of access to the children.
TV crews chased Mr and Mrs Darling down the street and a police guard had to be placed outside their door to prevent vigilante gangs from attacking them. Well, that was all too much for Nana the dog who was carted off to an RSPCA hospital, where she was soon being seen by a strange Australian man with a beard and a didgeridoo, who said he could make her a star, on, Animal Hospital.
Nana said she’d rather be put down, so after a quick call to an assisted suicide group called Dognitas, the old dear’s now pushing up the daises next to Shep in Blue Peter’s garden. Such a waste, she’d been trained by Norland, you know.
But I don’t suppose that means much these days.
Unsurprisingly, the Darling children went rapidly down hill from there. Shunted from one foster home to another, they fell in with the wrong crowd. Before long, Michael was wearing a hoodie and worse, hanging out with Prince Harry’s lot. As for little John, without any proper father figure to look after him, he found solace in a new faith, changed his name to Sinbad, and was last heard of heading for the Afghan hills for a spiritual vacation. Which is why Wendy got back in touch with yours truly.
So with no one else left to help her, Wendy closed her eyes tight and sent a wish to her old mate Peter Pan. I must confess, when her message first popped up on my Blackberry, I winced. Is there nowhere the office can’t reach me these days? Even Neverland? So I made a few calls, and whaddya know? Hookie agreed to help me out. Yes, I know he’s a rogue and bounder who has polluted the whole of Neverland, after swapping the Jolly Roger for a fleet of turbo charged jet skis.
Big mistake. We’d scarcely set foot in London before the anti – terrorism squad and Hookie was carted off to Belmarsh. You should have heard him shouting when they took him away! “I am Hook, one time bosom to Blackbeard. The only man to send a shiver up the wooden stump of, Long John Silver. The only consolation for the poor Captain was that the crocodile never made it through the security checks at Neverland Airport”. The other passengers heard that clock ticking in its belly and said they would not travel unless the croc was chucked off the flight.
As for Tinkerbell, no sooner had she returned to her old haunts than a gay rights group called Stonewall said it was totally unacceptable for her old name to be retained. When asked for an explanation, they just threw their eyebrows to the ceiling, sucked in their lips like lemon quarters and gasped: Firely was so much more ‘now’. They even wanted Tinks to change her gender, but we’re still negotiating on that. The Elf’s trade union is pretty sticky on that sort of alteration.
The fairy costumes had to go too, something to do with stereotyping. But when I showed Tinks her new thong, her little pilot light went out altogether, and I’m afraid no amount of Polish plumbers can get it started again. So now I’m stranded and alone, with only my shadow for company. Even Wendy has cut off contact after getting a six – figure deal to appear on a Celebrity show---get me out of here! All of this I can tell you, is incredibly upsetting.
What has happened to Britain these days? I know Neverlands not perfect, but it’s a place where time stands still – and innocence is preserved and I like it that way. Today’s inspectors and officials all say that they’re only interested in protecting children. But by imagining the worst of people they are only wrecking the very innocence they presume to defend.
As I was telling the tooth fairy the other day: “You know Gums, sometimes I wonder if childhood itself is vanishing”. And do you know what she said in reply: “Sorry Pete, I’ve gone private. If you want a consultation, you’ll have to pay up front”.
How about ‘Pay – as – you – go? Sorry Pete, it’ll Neverland!
Poem | |
I pondered the dandelion and its dazzling deed.
Some folks think this fluffy flower is a worthless weed.
But deep down inside its transparent fluff,
a thousand tassels hide in a sphere of spiracle stuff.
Embryonic umbrellas cuddle in cocoons,
until April’s sunshine tells us a miracle is coming soon.
Mystified and wondering, I was shaken from my dream,
and abruptly stopped my pondering when I heard a scream,
As my wife descended like an Afghan bomb!
“Go out and mow the weeds,” she said, “which last year you called lawn!”
Poem | |
I look at all the "excuses" in the world
Thinking different than a ordinary girl
From my learning that in nineteen eighty five
Our debtor nation strove -"keep the dream alive "
"Who are we, please?" I asked myself just today
Conquer countries? Unless they see things our way?
One by one we stumble through the Afghan land
Now we're in Iraq, Syria! Stop Iran!
China says, "US gossips, ignores own issues"
homeless, health, economy, jobs, tuition
Russia and "China" are two super powers
Never would our largest "creditor" coward
Sochi cost 50 billion and years to bring
I don't believe media reports of things
Place the blame for the whole entire world to see
Five star hotels with shower photos! No indeed!
In "Name of Freedom" citizens are perplexed
Pay "close attention" just 'where' we will go next?
We need more "excuses" better than before
If people see this "pattern", will be the end of war!
In politics, nothing happens by accident. If it happens, you can bet it was planned that way.
President Franklin D. Roosevelt
Poem | |
Violet and gray spoke of harsh rains that day,
as clouds hung low in weighted accumulation,
then upon my face sprinkled Heaven's bouquet,
slight at first, then swift in accumulation.
The amber porch lamp, my distant beacon,
where a snapping fire beckons and atones,
my drenched and weary spirit which does not weaken,
yet is driven by this windy assault to my chilling bones.
It was orange and cinnamon tea which met me,
a welcome assail upon an old woman's senses,
where my favorite afghan was warmed with mercy,
and peaceful sleep found me quite defenseless.
Poem | |
A poem by John Nesbitt © 22.11.2013
I was eighteen years old and wanting to fight
I found what I looked for, in bars late at night
I took on the big guys, the small ones as well
They were all tough, as far as I could tell
As a jobless young man, proud of my country
I joined up with the army and trained how not to be
They told me I’d fight to keep us all free
So that we’d never have to bend the knee
They trained me in weapons, unarmed combat too
The use of explosives and what they could do
And how to take cover behind rocks and trees
They taught me to find bombs and those I E D’s
So step up to the plate boys, start waving the flag
We’ll be all draped with medals when it’s all in the bag
Think of the glory, this conflict will bring
A few months away, then we can all sing
On my very first mission, I was told to unwind
I took lead position, when searching for mines
The blast threw me up twenty feet in the air
I couldn’t feel my feet for they were no longer there
My right arm was shattered my left fingers gone
I once had two ears but now only one
I thought I was dying, I couldn’t hear a thing
I wasn’t thinking of the medals or being dressed up with bling
Now all I can do is sit here on the floor
and wonder what it all had been for
my comrades call around from time to time
I can see their discomfort when they’re thinking of mine
They wouldn’t trade places, no matter what for
They each have their memories, of that terrible war
My fighting days over, no more blood and guts
So I’ll settle right down in my terrible rut
I stepped up to the plate boys and I waved the flag
But I’m not draped in medals and it’s not in the bag
I thought of the glory the conflict would bring
No legs, no fingers and in no mood to sing
Things soon will be over in Afghanistan
Talks are on-going with the Taliban
We struggled against them for thirteen hard years
But all we produced was billions of tears
Fathers lost sons and Mothers lost child
business got rich, there were deals on the side
Where’s the next country they’ll start a new war
Let’s hope….. it’s…. not ….yours
Poem | |
A tattered afghan thrown about,
All rumpled and askew.
The sleepy dog makes up his bed,
Then dreams sweet dreams of you.
He stirs upon his makeshift cot,
Exploring places, he'd ought not.
Now free to give the cat no peace,
To race and chase without the leash.
He twitches, whines and runs in place,
As if not bound by time and space.
Now in a land we cannot share,
Released, set free and happy there.
He chases squirrels, balls and sticks,
Then wakes exhausted from such tricks.
This double life our good friends lead,
Both here with us and in their dreams.
Those many hours dogs sleep each day,
Are filled with sport and endless play.
The time then left, until their end;
God bids them keep - as man's best friend.
Poem | |
There is a stillness in the house
While I wait, as quiet as a mouse
I soak it up, this quiet respite
For very soon, I'll be more desperate
I will need the peace inside myself
To put my needs up on the shelf
For at this very moment
I hear the gravel of the tires
No warning shot, no cannon fires
Coming up the winding driveway
I can hear the troops, they are like an army
I hear them comin' ...., (and yes, I love them!)
Pots and pans fill up the sink, with baked on, crusty bits
There are several plates of dried up cheese, and dips with soggy Ritz
The kitchen floor has sticky goo, where the bowl of gravy spilled
And scattered glasses here and there, (a few are still half-filled)
New sofa pillows are on the floor, the dog is sleeping there!
The gift of chocolates, someone brought me...have somehow disappeared!
A rumpled afghan, lies in a heap, where someone took a nap
Beneath the chair, a scarf, a shoe, and someone's fleese lined wrap
There is Chex mix, legos, tinker toys, helter-skelter around the floor
Chocolate crumbs, beneath my feet, and handprints on the door
The remote control, was out the door, I found it on the porch!
The telephone was ringing too, and took an hour's search!
I'm finding candle wax, and a few thumb tacks, a mix of this and that
I keep finding things, ...then can't find things, has anyone seen the cat??
A turkey carcass stares at me, ......(I guess I'll make some soup)
A messy bunch of people, they are, but if you think I'm duped................
Thanksgiving Day, with family here, (although they leave a mess...)
A holiday, the best of things, and yes, I know I'm blessed!
Poem | |
We huddled ‘neath a hand-made afghan
When it was just eight-below outside
Beside the brick fireplace with my man
Less than a year since I was his bride
Hopes and dreams we shared that bitter night
His arms ‘round me; all seemed possible
Recalling our vows before firelight
Our matching rings shone, our love's symbol
There’d never be another for me
We thought all of our dreams would come true
We had no insight of what would be
Never knowing we’d soon bid adieu
He now finds warmth in heaven’s light
My heart knows he’ll not be returning
But recalling this night brings delight
Even with frozen embers burning
*August 18, 2015
Poem | |
Whether it is the wide angle or telephoto lens,
Focuses on subjects of pre-empted significance,
The sun and the moon, framed to an eye dazed,
Or the sharp grain of pollen with the surrounds’, hazed,
The motion of a biker, shooting as a blur,
Or frozen in time with high speed shutter,
The moments of glory are captured to see,
The revelation of the “hand of god”, disgraces victory,
In a war zone of strayed bodies as bullets hailed,
The Lens captured the moments when its eye was felled,
The universe proximate, in a realm of colour bubble,
High on the earth orbit through the eye of the “Hubble”,
Kiss from the privates’ love, upon return from fate-unknown,
Or the memory of the Unknown Soldier, re-living in stone,
The fire in the eyes of that little Afghan girl,
Transformed the vision of a mesmerised world,
The legendary king of the science of “Relativity”,
Sticking out his tongue in a freeze to posterity,
The most clicked picture of the “memorial of love”,
In the silence of the full moon night, rests a white dove,
The discovery of camera, is not an invention of science,
Beholders’ capture of eternity, in the instance of the “Monalisa Smile”
Poem | |
Darling Afghan grandmother, your weary hands narrates a somber tale
Your bowed head discloses your day by day yearning ail
You have masked your happiness deep under your time-honored veil
Oblivious-- that your offspring’s will follow your footprints-- and abide by this wretched
Poem | |
Maiming, killing, chaos, happening throughout this nation, happenings everyday.
Saw an article in the newspaper about the City of Detroit. A killing frequently just another day.
Now as Christians we should realize and know that violence breeds violence.
So what do we do? We arm our educators so we can protect our children our innocents.
More people this year have been killed in Detroit than in the Afghan war.
Right here in the U.S.A. violence is leaving a tremendous scar.
Our children being taught through the airways, video games, that same sex marriage is OK’
Our Television media explodes when violence is shown; our moral compass is in disarray.
This goes back along time our nation is a relatively young nation compared to the Vatican and the Pope.
Yet since our very Foundation we are supposedly a nation that believe in God, Christian today think that this is a travesty a joke.
We lead in exporting smut triple x rated films nasty movies that turn up everywhere we are being misled.
The devil, his legions, control the airways they have crept into our culture, our families, our moral compass is dead.
As Christians we should pray in repentance, turn to God’s Commandments, and trust our Father.
Trusting corrupted leaders, trusting in man, is not the way in history it has never worked, this is what I’ve gathered.
Detroit a city gripped with terror, fear, a city where our children die in crossfire.
This is a national concern a must change policy towards children, to see them gunned down the situation is dire.
The four horsemen have been riding for a long time.
Ignoring the “Word” Ignoring the Father is truly the real crime.
We do ourselves no justice, with our free will we as Christians must trust in our Savior and the Lord.
Asking God to guide “Us,” in electing officials that have the courage to say enough, let’s go to God and His Son for help. Let’s truly as nation follow the “Word.”
Poem | |
This place is wrong
Thats why i write this song
Just to make sure we all know
How wrong the war on terror has gone
In the Afghan we fight the Taleban
In Iraq we fight the image of Sadam
Where fighting anyone who follows Islam
And i shouldn't need to say thats wrong
So all you people here my song
And everybody stand up and right this wrong
So lets just have some peace in the middle east
But first of al lets have peace on our streets
Poem | |
YET ANOTHER HALF-WIT WHO SHOULD LEARN TO KNIT
For what it’s worth
I’m feeling as if I’m stranded upon this earth
A place where half-wits ain’t got even half a brain
yet they’re telling me they see the sun when it’s really the rain
People who think I have time for their asinine advice
Well I’d rather be anywhere else and lose when I'm rolling the dice
Because that’s not why I’m stranded on earth just to hear their verbal bullsh*t
The ones who instead of preaching to me should learn how to knit
That would be more constructive then the mis-information they behold
And then they can create an afghan for me when I sleep in the street and it’s cold
I have had enough of these morons with their mixed up morals and speech
And when my girlfriend washes that afghan I’ll remind her not to use bleach
In any event these fu**ing fools talk far too fast
But it’s information that’s never meant to last
I look at these jerk offs with damnation and disdain
You know, the half-wits who ain’t got even half a brain
© 2011.…..~free cee!~
Poem | |
Cries of agony
No man’s land
No man can control the dusk and sand
Tanks squashing the houses
Evil deadly bullet
To take over the no man’s land
Because the ones who live in the desert
They are heroes
A consequence of war
No person’s imaginable fate
The sky turns
A church bell rings
Dead bodies surround the floor
Blood sweeps the houses
Fire kills the innocent men, women and children
Teenagers fight to defend their country
The evil desert
The beast of war
Poem | |
She was just 8 years old
With freckles on her face
She was a little tom boy
Playing miles from the U.S base
Her name was parwana
Means butterfly in afghan
She was like a little princess
Born in a cruel land
She was with other children
Just playing under the skies
But they look like terrorist
to a robotic drone as it flies
So they all were killed
With bombs falling from the skies
Then Washington says on TV
It’s a mistake we apologize
We apologize for your lost?
How will that ease the pain?
Of the parents not seeing
Their little love ones again
Her mother cries oh god
Why don’t you kill me instead?
How can I live now?
That my little butterfly is dead
These are our children
Not a horse or a cow
Go look your self in the mirror
Who are the terrorist now?
The British prime minster
Says the terrorist will be beat
From his press conference
From NUMBER 10 Downing Street
The white house says
There will causalities of wars
While all the war mongers
Are safe behind their doors
Her father mourns her death
Till his cant live no more
So he drove a car with bombs
Thru the green zone door
There are good and evil
And we know what evil do
But when the good do the same
Then who is better than who
The lives of the innocent
Are being taken by both sides
And today there was a butterfly
Who will no longer flies?