We Don’t Know

They came one by one
and I saw it all, the whole village fall
They attacked father and son
and when they left there were none
except me and my camera lens
and all my family and friends

My brothers and their sisters, on the radio we hear your pleading voice
But oceans apart, we change the station for some other noise

Across the hills and across bodies of water
there danced bodies full of life, a husband and his sweet wife
Now lost from home is this man’s little daughter–
he’s a prince become pauper, no longer father–
but found is our locked front door
and the walls we put up by four

Strained is my neck
staring down at my desk
as these images flash on TV
They came one by one
for the father and his son
That might as well have been me

I don’t want to watch the news
seeing another war we might lose,
but I can’t hold my breath
Why is no one asking why
other people sin and other people die,
yet we’re the ones safe from death?

My brothers and their sisters, on the radio we hear your pleading voice
But oceans apart, we change the station for some other noise

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