Perhaps…

 

Perhaps it‘ll be over

when I dare to open eyes

blinded by the centuries

of imperialistic lies.

When the bodies have been buried

underneath their rubble rooms

and the children all lie sleeping

In their bleak nursery tombs.

 

Perhaps I will be happy

with my name written on a rocket

that makes its way to Syria

in some war monger’s pocket.

For how many deadly missiles

does it take to kill an idea

in an enemy that deals in currencies

Of hate, terror and fear?

 

Perhaps I’ll side with generals

who justify their cause

by the number of innocent casualties

obliterated by their wars.

Where the targets are acquired

and the planes are in the air

and they don’t know what to do next

and they don’t really care.

 

Perhaps I’ll ignore the people

who elected me to parliament,

thinking it’s a show of strength

to vote with this War Lord government.

I’ll stab my Judas knife

into the back of men of peace.

The wolf hiding in the flock,

draped in a bloody fleece.

 

Perhaps it will be none of this

and all will see some sense

that bombing foreign countries

is the worst form of defence -

because the terrorist will not be home,

he’ll be some where else and plotting

more atrocities on foreign soil

while dead Syrian’s are rotting.