Fifty Dead in Iraq

Fifty people died in Iraq yesterday,
No ambulances to haul them all away.
Bodies torn apart by the falling mortar shells,
The survivors now trapped inside living hells.
A holiday, like our Christmas, turned red,
Now a memorial for the living to the dead.
Spilled blood of the victims becomes a battle cry,
Spurring on new violence; more will surely die.
What's to become of the memories of lives lost?
Will monuments be enough, regardless of cost?
What can replace the life held in a beating heart,
Stopped cold before it really had a chance to start?
How can a line be drawn when it is painted in blood?
Peace is the only answer; anything else is just a dud.