From gritty words to cries of hate

the war grinds on, as does debate.

The prophecy of sand and death

has been fulfilled, we are bereft.

The wounded hidden from the eye,

in places unfit for men to die.

They gave their eyes, limbs and mind

or left their tattered lives behind.

Their words screamed out, never heard,

their leaders words just sound absurd.

 

A prophecy becomes a truth.

The decimation of the youth.

Both friend and foe are lying dead

in sand or filth their lives have bled.

Yet still the wicked men of war

push their futile plan once more,

calling desperately for cash

to throw away, a mighty splash.

While soldiers die, rent and black,

more money will not bring them back.

 

And all of this a grave mistake,

faulty views, sand castles fake,

while shattered by bullet or a bomb

men dissolve and men are gone.

It is a monstrous mad device

the grinder made by men of vice.

The grinder moves and men are ground

Their sobs and screams a rending sound.

The dead are dead, we mourn for them

but learn to hate war monger men.

 

David Garlick, Sidney, March, 2007