| Why all these bugles crying for squads of young men drilled
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| To kill and to be killed and waiting by this train?
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| Why the orders loud and hoarse, why the engine’s groaning cough
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| As it strains to drag us off into the holocaust?
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| Why crowds who sing and cry, and shout and fling us flowers
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| And trade their right for ours to murder and to die?
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| The dove has torn her wings so no more songs of love
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| We are not here to sing, we’re here to kill the dove
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| Why has this moment come when childhood has to die
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| When hope shrinks to a sigh and speech into a drum?
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| Why are they pale and still, young boys trained overnight
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| Conscripts forced to fight and dressed in gray to kill?
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| These rain clouds massing tight, this train load battle bound
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| This moving burial ground sent thundering toward the night
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| Why statues towering brave above the last defeat
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| Old word and lies repeat across the new made grave?
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| Why the same still birth that victory always brought
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| These hoards of glory bought by men with mouths of earth?
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| Dead ash without a spark where cities glittered bright
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| For guns probe every light and crush it in the dark
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| And why your face undone with jagged lines of tears
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| That gave in those first years all peace I ever won?
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| Your body in the gloom, the platform fading back
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| Your shadow on the track, a flower on a tomb
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| And why these days ahead when I must let you cry
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| And live prepared to die as if our love were dead? |