Wednesday, October 27, 2004

In My name

My thoughts before Gulf War II as I sat at my desk late at night having watched the media building themselves and everyone else into a frenzy over the prospect of war. For me it is not nor ever was a question of WMD or oil but a question of right and wrong. We cannot claim to live in a civilised world whilst we turn a blind eye to the suffering of innocent people wherever and whomever they may be. Whilst the international community tolerates the intolerable, we are all barbarians.


In My Name

Fresh dawn colours brush pale the night,
Weary thoughts themselves debate.
A gathering storm looms large in sight,
The dictator’s decision, we await.

Weapons of mass destruction,
Diplomatic discussion,
Words of long construction,
Fears of repercussion,
Engage the conversation,
The mind of every nation,
Who in freedom talk,
And can in freedom walk.

We hear the commentators speak,
The politicians our attentions seek,
Commentators, expressing their views,
On chat shows and nightly news.
Some saying this and some saying that,
Many nonsense talking, out of their hat.

No! say many, we shall not fight,
For those who have no right.
Better we make another resolution,
And take his weapons away,
That seems by far the best solution,
The wise men, unwisely say.
As long as he complies
And does not tell us lies
We care not if he stays,
Nor fights on other days.

But the weapons are not the problem, you see.
The finger on the trigger, is what threatens liberty.

In those dark dungeons do they not hear,
The chilling screams of fear,
That pierce the dark filled night,
In torture chambers, hid from sight,
In places unheard and places unseen,
Even places, we may have been.

My imagination is filled with fright ,
The fearful thought, that as I write,
On begging knees, dread voices cry,
For pity’s sake, have mercy please!
In God’s name, rescue me,
Or I am done, for eternity.

In prison cells, behind closed doors,
Bodies twisted on blood stained floors.
Electrodes are spitting unbearable pain,
On sweat drenched bodies, driven insane,
And where now those who freedom preach,
Where now those who would us morals teach?

The hairs stand up, on the back of my neck.
My mind floats down like a shattered wreck.
The shivers run up and down my spine.
Anger wells up in this heart of mine.
Till my spirit can stand no more.
Till my spirit can stand no more.

Is this pitiful, all we should speak,
For the oppressed, by dictators made meek,
Who thirst and hunger to the bone,
Crying unheard and dying alone.
Are we who are free, not impressed.
That they who are poor, are oppressed?

My eyes are heavy now,
My thoughts are dark though heaven knows,
Light upon me dimly glows,
The village sleeps, the night is old
My body’s tired, my heart is cold.
Yet, my mind conjoins the universe,
And drums my restless thoughts perverse,
Till again, the screams rise within
Numb throbbing temples, tired of din.

Were these but simple dreams?
But as day breaks alas, the screams,
They have not gone,
They linger on.
Then the jarring bolt,
The red hot searing pain,
Surges through his sinews, once again.
It cannot long go on,
Before another man, is gone,

So while wise men in councils chatter,
Themselves to elevate and flatter,
Like cuckolding lovers in a Broadway farce,
Hurling their rocks in houses of glass,
The innocent are crying, their cries unheard.
Of them they speak not a meaningful word.

Who will save them from living hells
Tortured and dying, in miserable cells?

Those who protest, pretend they care,
But war is wicked their banners declare.
We cannot fight and freedom give,
To those who do not in freedom live.
Not in my name, not in my name,
Their banners proclaim,
Shall you carry the keys that open the cells,
Of those who die, in living hells.

If not them, who, who will it be,
While we stay at home and drink our tea?

If not them, then in my name,
And all those whose screams, we never hear,
Who live in terror,
Who live in pain,
Who live in fear.
In my name then fight the fight,
For those who die, out of sight.
Fight the battle that must be won
Or by the Devil, be undone.


Unwitting man did knives and spears fashion,
From cold grey rock, bereft of passion.
On battlefields throughout the ages,
As told in history's pages,
Did metal turned from stone,
Spill crimson blood from crushing bone.
T’is not easy to comprehend
Nor know, where it will end?
But all this, from simple stone
We foolish beings, must atone.


The rhythmic crashing, of ocean waves upon the sand,
Speak of mysteries, mortals cannot understand.
The whisper of chattering palms in the breeze,
Speak a language known only to the trees.
Crackling sparks on a burning wood fire,
Kindle in us some ancient desire.
The trickle of water, in winding streams,
Rock us gently in hypnotic dreams.

The murderous sound of whistling shells,
Of anguished cries, a thousand hells,
The last breath of a child dying,
A heartbroken mother, left crying.
In thunderous crash, God’s anger sound.
In tumbling rain, his tears abound.
Oh! sounds of men do bring us fear.
T'is the sound of God, we need to hear.