Swords to plowshares
Out of the ramparts of war
Letting down your battle hardened face
Into golden yellow fields,
Where you were once a child,
So cheerful and up beat-
But now the slowing beats,
Of a dead man's hand
Are all that you can hear.

Raising up to the sky
Your keen edged sickle
To cut down your new foe-
A tall yielding specimen
Of harvest times design.

So gentle a sway to the wind,
Flowing together as one.
If only the field of battle-
Could reap and sow like this.