Poem By Charles Baddeley
Who lurks in the dim lit street?
Perhaps each shadow hides a form.
A crime of fearful retribution mete.
A mask of hate, trained to deform.
Revenge moves with reckless force, unhinged.
A pride, or greed; no Christ like act.
A young man shoots dead, without a twinge
No thought up murder, to enact.
A body falls in silent death;
blood pulsing form the hideous wound.
Reduced to useless frame, without breath.
A victim to the desolate darkness attuned.
For this is Belfast, where life is cheap;
where, who strikes first lives another day.
The World sheds tears and angels weep
for these sad people who have lost their way.
They could be happy, if they followed close
the laws of heaven ascribed for their good use.
This is ignored, leaving them hopeless and morose
There seems no end to this killing and abuse.