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.