Skies today are all clear,
stunning,
But the armor is here,
rattling.

All across our vast land:
humming,
And the trees are so sad,
sapping.

Rising up like a cross
is black smoke,
Not a rooftop will host
nesting storks.

Amber ears of wheat grow
eagerly,
“All in vain,” comes a thought,
bitterly.

What’s that amber ahead,
shimmering?
There’s a fire in the field,
flickering.

All were scattered away.
Torment!
No more songbirds remain:
Corvids!

And the trees are in dust,
brightened.
Every songster is hushed,
silent.

Not for us love was made,
isn’t it?
Hatred is of a main
interest.

Rising up like a cross
is black smoke,
Not a rooftop will host
nesting storks.

Forest rustles with
its canopy,
Land and water are
in agony.

But it’s not without a
miracle.
Forest’s sounds are pre-war
typical.

From their woes all went
off easterly,
There are no storks remain,
no passerines.

Now the air contains sounds
different;
Rattles, clangs go in rounds,
bickering.

Comes the clatter of hooves
quivering
Someone’s screams sound aloof,
whispering.

From their woes all went
off easterly,
There are no storks remain,
no passerines.