Craters, where once meadows wove
Scorched and wasted by gas are
All the fields around. And
On heaps like on walls
Ground comes first, then top.
But now the plain of that pit
Shall be flooded,
Shrouded shall it be
with sandy shore,
planted shall be
all the moats.
I would like to roam
Some green, some mild
Something new. But
It is my feeling,
fallen deaf,
long ago.