When the sun makes day,
With mist and dew,
In the camps of 1945,
The barbed wire still weeps.

In deserted land of West Mayo,
Abandoned potato drills,
And the hunger of 1845,
The barbed wire still weeps.

In the desert sun,
Of Sabra and Shatila,
And the now deserted camps of 1985,
The barbed wire still weeps.

In the African air,
The Sun of Zaire,
In the camps of 1995,
The barbed wire still weeps.

In  Jerusalem halls and Palestine walls,
In the morning light,  
Where Abraham calls,
The barbed wire still weeps.

If we ever  forget,  
Or if we ever regret,
The barbed wire,
Will weep for us all.