These are seventeen of the saddest pictures I’ve ever seen. They depict the direct results of war crimes perpetrated by the evil “genius” of death and mayhem, V. V. Putin. What does he expect to gain from this diabolical venture that would be worth even a tiny fraction of the value of just one of these lost lives?
The punishment for copying a DVD (“piracy!”) is greater than the punishment he has been given. Robbing a few bucks from a corporation is more heinous than killing civilians and maiming children, it seems. Have they become merely a statistic? Putin is apparently not only a terrorist and a war criminal, but also a baby-killer and a psychopath.
For any who think or wonder if the blame exists elsewhere, ask yourself: Who are the ones deliberately targeting non-combatant citizens, including women, children, and the elderly?
And remember: Perpetrators of evil cannot justifiably use the “I was just following oders” excuse; we all have a conscience for a reason. “Calling it your job don't make it right, Boss.”
Anyone partnering with Putin makes himself bloodguilty.
“Ours is a world of nuclear giants and ethical infants. We know more about war than we know about peace, more about killing than we know about living. We have grasped the mystery of the atom and rejected the Sermon on the Mount.” — Omar Nelson Bradley
War is Kind
By Stephen Crane
Do not weep, maiden, for war is kind.
Because your lover threw wild hands toward the sky
And the affrighted steed ran on alone,
Do not weep.
War is kind.
Hoarse, booming drums of the regiment,
Little souls who thirst for fight,
These men were born to drill and die.
The unexplained glory flies above them,
Great is the battle-god, great, and his kingdom—
A field where a thousand corpses lie.
Do not weep, babe, for war is kind.
Because your father tumbled in the yellow trenches,
Raged at his breast, gulped and died,
Do not weep.
War is kind.
Swift, blazing flag of the regiment,
Eagle with crest of red and gold,
These men were born to drill and die.
Point for them the virtue of slaughter,
Make plain to them the excellence of killing
And a field where a thousand corpses lie.
Mother whose heart hung humble as a button
On the bright splendid shroud of your son,
Do not weep.
War is kind.