On the open field,
the soldiers bleed;
war's the price they paid,
they came to liberate,
and here they bled and stayed.

Now white crosses mark
the field,
hundreds in a row;
now the dead are buried,
the symbols in the moonlight glow.

Now it's a haunting ground,
where ghost and goblins lurk;
where we are frightened half to death,
by what the soldiers did not shirk.

War is killing our fine youth,
in spots we never knew;
in spots we never heard of,
where pilots over ...flew.

Names we best not think of,
if were to stay at peace;
with sanity and helplessness,
with wars that do not cease.