The Night Is Long Poem by ian westwood

The night is long,
The man is strong,
The women weep,
The children sleep.

The fire crackles
Its sparks fly high,
No sign of evil
In midnight sky.

But then, instead
A foot does tread,
On sintered ground,
With awesome sound.

Approaching slowly
A single tent
With gun grasped tightly
With death intent.

The tent-fold
Quickly cast aside,
Gunshots killing
All inside.

What sense has this
And other deeds,
Of simple soldiers
Bound by orders
To commit such attrocities.

The answer lies
In wealth and power,
The money-making
Of the faceless ones,
Who never appear
On the scene of war,
Yet pull the strings,
Just as before.