War (Wyn)

Why must I live in this grim age, When, to a far horizon, God Has ebbed away, and man, with rage, Now wields the sceptre and the rod?

Man raised his sword, once God had gone, To slay his brother, and the roar Of battlefields now casts upon Our homes the shadow of the war.

The harps to which we sang are hung, On willow boughs, and their refrain Drowned by the anguish of the young Whose blood is mingled with the rain.