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the murder

The Murder 
Bombs are falling hundreds are killed many of them children 
and we shake our heads in dismay, something has to be
 done to stop these atrocities.
 Yet there is communality about bombing, victims died trying
 to save themselves, they did have a chance. 
On a sand dune a man on his knees, hands chained behind his
 back waiting for his killer to cut his throat and the awfulness 
of being human hits me with as a grim knife  of sorrow. 

And then I have to endure someone defending his murder by 
saying it was caused by revenge for our misdeed, I ask, I holler
 into the wind, have you no compassion? Can you not feel, just
 for a moment, the lonely agony of the man’s final moment? 
His end so meaningless - as a life is- and no fairytale can make
this revulsion into the defence for psychopaths’ entertainment. 

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