Behind us the wrath and the ruin left,
We are bruised and broken in fields bereft
Of their gentle flocks and peaceful herds;
We know, we know in our black war-woe,
There’s not a grace of gain for it all,
There’s not a spear of grain from it all.
O woe are we in this rusted red,
And woe the hearts which we’ve pierced and bled;
No honor is here, no glory bright,
But shame that is deeper than speech can tell,