III. The Battlefield
Clear the battlefield and let me see
All the profit from our victory.
You talk of freedom, starving children fall.
Are you deaf when you hear the season's call?
Were you there to watch the earth be scorched?
Did you stand beside the spectral torch?
Know the leaves of sorrow turned their face,
Scattered on the ashes of disgrace.
Ev'ry blade is sharp; the arrows fly
Where the victims of your armies lie.
Were the blades of grass, and arrows rain,
Then there'd be no sorrow,
Be no pain.