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Tuesday, 7 October 2014


I was reading a true story of a man in early 1920s Belfast.  After work, he was hurrying to catch an evening variety show at a theatre and was caught in crossfire between two rival factions.  He was killed.

All died.
All died while doing ordinary things,
rushing to catch the evening show,
crossing the street to a pub,
waiting at a bus stop,
riding a bike in a country lane,
taking in milk bottles from the front step,
playing football in the park,
watching a horse race,
lining up a shot on a fairway,
travelling to work,
kissing a sweetheart goodnight.....

All died.
All died doing ordinary things,
all the rhyme and reason of life haywire,
all died,
caught in the crossfire.

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