These heavy walls I pass each day
These iron gates ornately
Keep me away. Forever outside
In the comfort zone.
No I can't see, but sometimes hear
On mornings almost dreaming
Gun-fire. Shot from those inside
They hone the art of killing.
The sound is real, all to clear
Somewhere above the ceiling
The murmer of an early plane
Drifts past the children playing.
Those airmen who are barely older
Can they see red dots of blazers?
Will their names be written with regret
In all our morning papers?
On page nine, skip-read or not at all.
Why should I care?
I'm this side of the wall.
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