Less passionate the long war throws
its burning thorn about all men,
caught in one grief, we share one wound
and cry one dialect of pain.
We have forgot who fired the house,
whose easy mischief spilt first blood,
under one raging roof we lie
the fault no longer understood.
But as our twisted arms embrace
the desert where our cities stood,
death’s family likeness in each face
must show, at last, our brotherhood.