An Old Proverb

'It will be all the same in a thousand years.' And in a thousand years It will be all the same, Whether or no Women's tears flow, Or battles take us To save or to break us, Or man against man Advance but a span; Hideous in anger, Tame in death's languor, Shouting and crying, Sobbing and dying, On the red fields of war; Calling on those afar, Mother and child and wife There in the midst of strife. God, the earth shakes with it! Down in the hellish pit, Where the red river ran, Hatred of man to man; Maddened they rush to kill, That but their single will; Strangle or bayonet him! Trample him life and limb Into the awful mire; Break him with knife or fire! So that we know he lie Dead to the smiling sky. And in a thousand years It will be all the same. Which of us was to blame? What will it matter then? Over the sleeping men Grass will so softly grow No one would ever know Of the dark crimson stain, Of all the hate and pain That once had fearful birth In the black secret earth. Ah! in a thousand years Time will forget our tears. Babes in their golden hour Seeking some hidden flower Will, in those years afar, Play on the fields of war; And as they laughing roam Mothers will call them home; Laden with fruit and flower Run they at twilight hour. Cattle will, lowing, stray, Little lambs frisk and play, Birds nest in hedge and tree All in Time's victory. Dark o' night, dawn o' day, Dark o' night, dawn o' day. Thus in a thousand years Time will forget our tears, And the lost fields of war. In the good years afar When the lads silent lie, When women's tears are dry. All the wives comforted, All the maid's grief is shed, Crying babes safe and still Sleeping in vale and hill, Sobbing of men is mute, And scream of dying brute, On the red fields of war, In those good years afar. Only the waving grass, Where the shy children pass Seeking the hidden flower, Glad in their golden hour, And as they laughing roam Mothers will call them home, Laden with fruit or flower Run they at twilight hour. Over the meadow grass Slow the moon's shadows pass. Only the chirp of bird From the deep hedge is heard. This in a thousand years Payment of blood and tears, Horrors we dare not name, It will be all the same. What is the value then To all those sleeping men? It will be all the same, Passion and grief and blame. This in the years to be, My God, the tragedy!