Children are being killed
struck down in front of their
homes, grains of corn only
sprouted, never a stalk nor an ear. 
The somber music of madness
permeates streets and overpasses,
an opus for the angel of death
to reap his bloody harvest. 
The dove bearing an olive branch
shot down.  Now, only vultures
circle the sky along with
the rockets red glare.  When, O God,
will the lion lie down with the lamb?