The guns have ceased their thunderous roar

    And bird song takes its place;

Death’s now moved on to somewhere new

    And left but little trace –


The golden meadows bloom with flowers

    In summer’s warm, fresh air.

Perhaps the world’s now healed its wounds

    Although you are not there.


The gold of autumn strikes our world;

    Then winter’s wind blows cold.

Now Christmas brings joy to our world

    And Earth’s at peace, we’re told.


When winter changes into spring,

     I offer up my prayer:

Perhaps this world’s now healed its wounds,

    Although you are not there.



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