Tell me, mother. Tell me why
So many people had to die,
Stripped of their rights and locked up in cells,
Buried in ditches and thrown into wells.
Was it the planes, the bombs and the ships,
The men who came marching with guns on their hips,
The clubs, the bullets, the landmines and tanks?
Was it planned on the paper we hoarded in banks?”
“No, child. It wasn’t gold, silver or guns
That took our neighbors, their daughters and sons.
It wasn’t walls with their wires and bars
That packed the weeping cattle cars.
It wasn’t the men in their armored machines
That bulldozed mountains and poisoned our streams.
It wasn’t white robes and ropes tied in knots,
Just desires and ordinary thoughts.”