Extracts from a couple of poems Epsilon. Maybe you'll see where Im coming from. Belive me I sympathise with the victims of bombing, Bali or elsewhere:-
IF I WERE GOD
If I were the God of the Righteous, and I mean in the global sense
And somebody said that the answer was “might” , and that killing was not an offence,
Or a volunteer bomber could somehow find “Bliss”, from the moment of impact and hence-
I’d prob’ly say “Son, just give-it-a-miss, ..and don’t be so God-damned dense!.”
Salvation my boy is a well informed joy,
(Enlightened, less frightened, and ranting-much-quietened,)
where you argue – like gents - at the fence.
The next one assumes that you're going to have to deal with the next generation of kids in some other way than to "nuke them"
HOW DO YOU JUDGE
How do you judge a small boy, born in bedlam, and brought up on bullet and bomb,
And forced to take sides since his age 4 or 5, with rebel or junta or com -
how Different from sons who grabbed rusty old guns, and told to report to the Somme?
yet They were our heroes - Aussies or Austrian, Polish or Prussian or Pom?
Empathy mate, he’s a victim of fate,
Teach him guitar 'stead of military gait,
Half a chance gladly, he'd tone down the hate
Gladly swap rifle for song.
How do you judge when a father steals bread, and feeding his child’s his objective,
How do you measure the pain in his head, against some divine law directive,
how Different from coots who wear grey flannel suits, and somehow avoid the detective?,
and Rob us all blind, and yet they can find a loophole from public invective?.
Empathy, friends, for the child must be fed,
Half a chance, gladly, he's elsewhere instead,
Tolerance, friends, the alternative's ‘dead ‘
and Hunger is hardly elective.
How do you judge an old man wearing rags, who reckons he lived to the letter,
Alternative place or alternative race, it all could have been so much better,
Alternative time he’d be getting by fine, instead he’s a vagrant and debtor,
how Different from chaps where the dice won perhaps? - but dice have made him a regretter.
Half a chance gladly he’d rise from the mud,
Guilty but huge mitigations m’lud,
Empathy - there but for fortune’s my blood (brother)
Him wearing rags, me jet setter.
What do we do with this empathy savoured, and tolerance practiced in kind?
Live 20 lives which are various-flavoured, and give twice the kindness you find,
Only so much that one mortal can do - even one kindness-inclined,
Only so much - but a thought born of fairness will help keep your goalposts aligned -
Follow the truth (and on this never budge)
Constantly giving your conscience a nudge,
Walk a brief mile in his shoes, don't prejudge, (and let)
Prejudice wither on vine.