No more prayers now.
No more breast-beating and tears.
Just the Sword of War.
The blade falls quickly.
Lop! Lop! Lop! See the heads roll?
Too little. Too late.
Another day comes.
Another atrocity.
The Sword is too slow.
Now come the bullets.
Tearing through the soft, red flesh.
Still not fast enough.
So out come the bombs.
Whistling as they plummet,
birthing fiery death.
Then there will be peace.
Finally, there will be quiet.
The quiet of death.
Will God weep for us?
Or just sigh in sad relief,
that we killed ourselves?
His hands are bloodless.
(At least, in this instance.)
We picked up the Sword.
No more prayers now.
Just the gray, silent landscape
and the Sword of War.
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