She stands there, between both sides,
Dressed in an ancient burial shroud.
She thinks it�s better to die in peace,
Then those whose minds are bloody and proud.

She gets down on her knees and prays
As tears drop from her porcelain face.
The warriors� faces are hard and blank,
Not understanding what they do to this place.

She lifts up a handful of dirt�
Blood and bullets litter the soil.
All she can do is sit there and cry,
Best not to get involved in this mortal toil.

She stands up slowly and wipes away tears
And glances back at each side twice.
�None of you will accomplish anything here,
Death is your friend when war is the vice.�

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