No, it won’t do

to claim that dwellings

hide the threat of fire,

or a hospital the resting place

for lethal activity that must be subdued,

or a family when told to leave didn’t , couldn’t,

for there was nowhere else to go.

No, it will not do,

as smoke clouds rise

above the rubble of city streets,

lit red with the flash of in-coming shells.

Amid this rumbling roar of attrition,

comes a wailing siren-scream as casualties

are lifted from the gathered dust

and broken-hearted Mothers weep

for their children, held lifeless,

in their outstretched arms.

No, it will not do.

It will not do, neither this week nor next month,

for life to be lost through the intransigence

of stubborn men,

repaying anger with further anger,

losing sight of the final cost.

There on a narrow, coastal strip of land

caught

between hot desert sand and cooling sea,

cries conscience.  

No, it will not do.

* *“No, it won’t do….”

The opening line of Theodicy,

Czeslaw Milosz :  pg 445 Collected Poems:  1931- 2001