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Hambridge Ron © 2004


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Oo! I'm the unluckiest by far
Blown to pieces by a shooting star
Before I could muster my silent wish
Against this disaster god chose to dish

Will I wander Iraq's sands forever?
Help me, help me! I fear I shall never
Collect the fragments of my body-soul
And manage to become a healthy whole

The bones and blood and chaos there
Was once a Shi'ite Muslim at prayer
Until - as they in mosques explain -
God the merciful sent this pain

But bits of my hands, feet and thigh
That never ever learnt to lie
Told me they saw a human hand
Showing the star just where to land

The pieces marvelled at humanity's power
To bend to its ends a meteoric shower
These humans have even the capacity
To shatter the earth and undo the sea

The pieces thought that things were well
They felt I was an infidel
When I lamented this destruction
My death - they said - was their construction

I am an alien upon this earth
Where once I dreamed of home and hearth
I now believe the old poet's thesis
This world turns us into bits and pieces

Do you, like me, tremble when you think
That just one person destroyed me in a blink?
To kill two hundred, a thousand years ago
There had to be at least as many of the foe

Is this the famous technological progress?
To give one killer overwhelming success?
The weight of these questions had me in agony
'Til a piece of my brain explained the mystery

The bomber was also nothing but a piece
Of a terrible system one is forced to please
In some way or another if you hope to survive
And this my friend is why so many evils thrive

I want to shout. Everyone should listen!
I was not really killed by just one person
The list of those who in this cooperated
For which - by the way - they should be hated

Include the USA and its allies who are cruel
In their never-ending imperialistic search for fuel
The Arabian rulers who use talk about the nation
To hide the part they play in my exploitation

The makers and sellers of the weapons that's deployed
Whenever masses of the people are destroyed
The speakers and writers of the words that justify
That those who are different must be made to die

The actual carriers of the bombs and the guns
Are in the end not the most guilty ones
The rich and the powerful reap the benefits
Of me having been blown to tiny bits

Oo! I'm the unluckiest by far
Blown to pieces by a shooting star
Before I could master the much-maligned art
Of making revolution against a world torn apart




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