“Where Have All the Flowers Gone?”
Our land is thick with thistle and with thorn
dead bodies lace the meadow newly stripped.
The air now wracked with twisted metal born
and steaming clods upon the blackness slip.
So crush`ed is the early budding heads
who suckle now among a sea of mud.
Men plunge, protected through their field of dread;
grab boxes painted orange in death’s flood.
The blossoms in the meadow burnt away
each leaf has flown and hurried from our view.
The madness we call war has had its sway.
Burnt offering, we offer our excuse.
But flowers will not listen to our hurl.
They gasp for air in other, better worlds.