With war machines unleashed the lands run red,

awash with all the blood of innocents,

while we quail at the counting of the dead,

a toll that from far off makes little sense.

So which is right, and which is wrong? Who knows.

The winner’s he who wields the bigger guns,

and while it lasts the body count just grows,

computed not in numbers but in tonnes.

As open-mouthed we watch the news in shock

then tear our eyes away from foreign strife

to focus them upon the Doomsday Clock,

no longer stilled, but sprung to bloody life,

its pendulum released, too strong to fix,

approaching midnight now with ruthless ticks.