Camera is my Weapon

I picked up my “Camera’,
“A good shot!” they said.
A prize is looming in the air.
I crawled in the rubble.
I saw him there
He lifted what was left of his hand
To cover his burnt face
And I took the shot

I remember; I have seen him before!
Was it on Bloody Sunday?
Was it somewhere else?
When snipers riddled his body with bullets.
Was it somewhere else?

He was praying; kneeling, never to rise again.
I remember; bombs falling.
He was driving an ambulance
A dead girl in his arms.
Her blood on his face, scorching and hot.
And I took the shot.

A woman maddened with grief; pulling her hair,
She hit me with all the strength she’s got.
Was it because I took a shot?

A little girl was lying there,
Her face was so serene.
She had no arms or legs.
Nothing left but a sweet little face.
And I took a shot

Little boys with missing limbs
Were playing in the rubble
I stood petrified.
He reached with his ‘good’ hand
And took my camera,
To take a shot!

“Great work!” they said.
“Your pictures deserve a prize.”
“Are you blind?” I screamed.
“I’m not doing ‘this’ for a prize!”
“Look at them; hungry, bleeding, dying,
While their ‘Murderer’ escapes with impunity
Sir, I know; I was there,
I know, I took the shots.”

Max O’Reilly