A field sown with the bones
Of foreign murderers.
Without them we would not know war.
But for them it is we —
Criminals not on their land.

The soil will grow still blacker,
The wheat more golden,
And through the port point
Humanitarian aid is passed.

For our bread will stick in the throat
Of the defender and even the aggressor.
And after the war in a few years
The investor will grimace at it.