I rake the embers of burned out fires of past conflict,
Hoping to unearth, still glowing coals of human goodness.
Yet in bowels of hell, discarded, weak and lonely congregate,
My own constant weakness denies me the right to help them,
Yet my faith in some God, and my feelings of right still prevails.
Covering my own tearful eyes with sackcloth veil of black,
As in the valley of the dead past, a lonely bugle sounds.
All that remains, are visions of countries led by politicians,
Gathering ill-gotten gains in sacks made of human flesh
As dead brave men lay silent, in futile war’s anti-glory.