Soon, this peaceful field will be destroyed,
Every tree shall feel autumn approaching near.
Then the soldiers will create the coldest winter,
And blood shall be dripped all over the ground.
In the meanwhile, men will speak their policy,
Each nation will fall in a state of animosity.
And they all once more will fall in disunity,
The work of peace shall be entirely destroyed.
Soon, everything that we struggled to build,
Shall shatter into unknown pieces of misery.
Then the bravest warriors buried six feet under,
Shall remain nameless below these fields.
In the meanwhile, men will declare the war,
Believing that they will attain something far.
Remains of society once more will start over,
The work of peace shall have to be rebuilt.
Soon, pure hearted souls will be wounded,
Not by the bullets, not even by the swords.
The strongest of fighters will be haunted,
Dying strangers’ memories in front of them.
In the meanwhile, men will love their families,
Yet fail to protect them from the worst of pain.
Society will never learn from past mistakes,
The work of peace shall forever be wounded.