War. What is it good for? Absolutely nothing. A famous song, yes. But the stories that make a war so hideous and so awful are not. No one knows what the wreck of the houses has caused. No one knows what kind of love and memories the orders of the killing wiped. Perhaps those who press the trigger must read about their targets before they shoot. Perhaps someone should hand them a profile of all the names that will mourn the killed. Perhaps they should be killed first for a day to realize how difficult it is to end someone’s life. To put an end for memories. For families. Brothers. Sisters. Sons. Daughters. Even strangers. War, alone, is just a word found in W section in any dictionary. However, everything else that makes the war is what matters. The shattered. The broken. The bent. The burned. Everything. Tears are a result of any grief or happiness, extreme happiness. But tears made of blood only appear when the hell of war unleashes its fire on the innocent. On the small. On the big. On the birds. On the trees. Life slowly takes its part on building many lives so murder would come and reap. War takes what cannot be restored. War is humans. The victims are humans. But the first is unaware of that fact. He sees: targets. He sees orders. He does not see the life he ends. Or the laughter he captures. Or the memories he destroys.
He is wearing sunglasses in the middle of the night
And claims that someone turned tthe lights off.
He shoots to kill and ignores what will be killed.
A picture, lifeless and electronic.
Not knowing that it breathes like he does.
The hearts of the targets beat like his heart does
Those children are like the child he was
Those parents are like his
Those toys, those buildings,
Are the same he goes to
With one difference: different faces.
Exactly the same but with different faces. And hearts with different races.