| Why all these bugles cry
|
| These squads of young men drill
|
| To kill and to be killed
|
| Stood waiting by the train
|
| Why the orders loud and hoarse
|
| Why the engine’s groaning cough
|
| As it strains to drag us all
|
| Into the holocaust
|
| Why crowds who sing and cry
|
| And shout and fling us flowers
|
| And trade their rights for ours
|
| To murder and to die
|
| The dove has torn her wing (s?)
|
| So no more songs of love
|
| We are not here to sing
|
| We’re here to kill the dove
|
| Why must this moment come
|
| When childhood has to die
|
| When hope shrinks to a sigh
|
| And speech into a drum
|
| Why are they pale and still
|
| Young boys trained over night
|
| Concripts payed to kill
|
| And dressed in gray to fight
|
| These rainclouds massing tight
|
| This train load battle bound
|
| This moving burial ground
|
| Goes thundering to the night
|
| The dove has torn her wing (s?)
|
| So no more songs of love
|
| We are not here to sing
|
| We’re here to kill the dove
|
| Why statues towering grave
|
| Above the last defeat
|
| Old words and lies repeat
|
| Across a new made grave
|
| And why the same still birds
|
| That victory always brought
|
| These hours of glory bought
|
| By men with mounds of earth
|
| Dead ash without a spark
|
| Where cities used to be
|
| Where guns probe every spark
|
| And crush it into dust
|
| The dove has torn her wing (s?)
|
| So no more songs of love
|
| We are not here to sing
|
| We’re here to kill the dove
|
| And while your face undone
|
| With jagged lines of tears
|
| That gave in those first years
|
| All the peace I’d ever want
|
| Your body in the gloom
|
| The platform fading back
|
| Your shadow on the track
|
| A flower upon a tomb
|
| And why these days ahead
|
| When I must let you cry
|
| And live prepared to die
|
| And to…
|
| The dove has torn her wing (s?)
|
| So no more songs of love
|
| We are not here to sing
|
| We’re here to kill the dove |