through the eyes of war

will the sound of dying gasps of children’s breath

stir the consciousness of the men of politics

would it steal away a little of their silk suit pride

if they had to hold a child’s clutching little fingers

of a some mother’s baby lost to genocide

if they could spend a night trapped in a fire fight

with their own loved ones crying at their sides

if they hold a dirty rag to their child’s bloody chest

will they stop just once and try to change the tides

if the sirs and honorable who walk to limos grand

woke up once to fingers numb from ice and cold

if instead of a fireplace and a golden glow of warmth

rags were the only blankets that they had to hold

if burning flames of napalm dropped from the sky

to sear their pampered flesh like the devil’s tines

could they begin to make amends and feel regret

as they saw at last their list of deadly sins

the laws would be as sweet as a children’s magic laugh

perhaps the wars would not be fed by greed

perhaps their souls and hearts would breathe again

perhaps they would think first of what others need