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Poem: Houla




Thirty-two divides
time and time again
to a perfect one
Yet here there are none
all are lost, all gone
the maths of massacre
just does not add up
it only takes away

Their deaths dishonour us
silent in a guilt
wherein lies are built
We are all now less
deaf to their distress
why, God alone can guess
Thirty-two or one
hope broken, dead and gone

A curse on all your Gods
whose promises and lies
usurp children’s cries
and feed men’s love of might
of power, not of right
and something of the night
in souls devoid of sense
slaughter innocence


Forty-nine, thirty-two
pain from hate
does not accumulate
Their task to execute
a cause to prosecute
no one shall refute
but mired in evil lies
by every child that dies


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