She runs to the shelter, there is no space, she goes home again gets her faced pushed in, no resources available to tend to her needs, while 25 trillion rests off shore, the story goes on, the children witness the slaughter, their minds forever spoiled, this is love the little boy thinks, does the same when the passions run dry, many years later it’s repeated. Solomon was asking, the emotional words that pour out, the tears in the eyes, the TV cameras and the lies, a tissue, a wipe and they are forgotten, till the next opportunity arrives. The shelter cost so little to run, volunteers mostly, and help from the government, well, when families break up the economy thrives, why put an end to such a thing, it will cost us jobs as well. Solomon sighed, they could have purchased the opium crop in afghanistan for a tiny fraction of the security budget allocated, cost jobs there too if they ever did something about it. Send them a message dear Father. Solomon read the warnings, the time was now, put an end to the extremists and let families live again.
Meanwhile, so many talent given souls fill the off shore hideaway with their spoils, while the small child cowers in the corner, his little hands over his eyes, while Dad beats mammy to a pulp, what a legacy to leave given the talent freely received, amen.