I see blood everywhere, cries of anguish rents the Eastern air.
My father's house, a house of prayer now a nest of crime.
A place of worship now a hive of guns.
A save haven now a theatre of battle.
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Like candles you were lit and not even the fiendish whirlwind can put you out. You are alive in the tabernacle of our hearts, never to be thrown in the dustbin of oblivion. a very fine poem. tony