The blood flows and limbs are torn asunder,
Screams reach out across the air waves, hopeless
Victims of savagery, caused by blunder
Blind fear and crusades, cruel, meaningless.
Yet we sit, frozen, clinging to quiet lives,
To our nuanced decorations, as though
Frodo in the green of the Shire derives
Purpose from a warm hearth and soft pillow.
The shambles of scattered flesh is hidden
From us, witnessed by a few mad brave souls
And the poor folk condemned to the midden
Trapped though innocent in the hell fire coals.
Is it enough that we live where we are,
Wrestle with our domestic pains, bemoan
Minor obligations, in safety far
From the charnel house, the wail and the groan?