Belgium, 1914

In spring I sowed the corn,
All green and lush it grew,
I hoed it row by row
The pleasant summer through.

The rain by night refreshed,
The sun by day gave strength,
With care I watched it change,
The harvest came at length.

At sunrise, when, this morn,
I left my wife and child
To reap the golden corn,
With happiness I smiled.

By midday came the storm,
Iron and blood by turn,
Ruin to beat me down,
Havoc to slay and burn.

Death fell upon my farm,
His sickle in his hand,
The dykes are flush with blood.
And corpses hide the land.

The corn lies in the rut,
Ploughed down by Death's own share,
My child went underfoot,
My wife … I know not where.

My cottage shows one fang,
One beam, amid the wreck,
That marks where I shall hang
At sunset … by the neck.
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