The morning cock is crowing
The sun is rising red
The people of the village
Are laying out their dead
The bomb went off this morning
And blew their whole world wide
at the last count
Twenty eight had died
Twelve women and nine children
Seven men who'd done no crime
Who's only mistake was living
Where you drew you're battle line
Who farmed and went to school there
Who lived there all their lives
Who were put to death
With the sleep still in their eyes
Who were slaughtered like they were cattle
Killed like pigs inside their styes
Who's bodies lie there now
Covered up with flies
While you sit inside your castle
Looking over your battle plans
How much more blood
Will end up on your hands
Rosa Mayfair
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/blood-on-your-hands/
