France, 1914

Where the songbirds fly low and the wildflowers grow, there's a peace that echoes through the land.

Trees of pretty patterns, blossoms fall in spring, grass never was so green though the nettles, vipers, sting.

Soon to feel the bombs of war, they’ll spread, reach every tree , soon to be the land every bug and beast will flee.

They'll shell the land with so much noise there'll be no crow or rook,

they'll bomb and harm and kill the land till they've torn out every root.

The green fields, the flowers, where the sun shines in the sky,

will purely be a place they dread, where young men come to die.