Grass now covers the once-made hell;
Flowers bloom where bombs once fell;
The songbird’s trill replaces the cry
Of frightened men about to die.
Men against men in a deadly struggle;
Pleasant homes reduced to rubble;
Sons all dressed in olive drab;
Chiseled names on a granite slab.
Farmers now plow those battlefields
Where the fates of many once were sealed;
And the city’s sound of the air raid wail
Is the ghost of stories that the old men tell.
What cost to watch the children play;
For each to go their separate way;
To watch the flight of autumn geese;
What price is there to keep at peace?
The courthouse bell tolls the hour;
The countryside is alive with flowers;
A small child reads at a schoolhouse desk;
And the fragile world remains at rest.
By: Thomas A. McClure