The world is a greyer place than last I saw it clearly,
I walked down the Boulevards of my youth and naivete
Wondering if the men that never returned from the guns of hell,
Would miss this grey, strange land of ideas and people
That are indifferent to what they cannot see.

I looked at the house of childhood, bag in hand,
There is nothing to return to, I walk onwards
And book myself in a hotel instead.
The inky dark sky reminds me of the trenches.

The evenings are too cold in my civilian clothes,
The fabric is too soft, the water that runs is too cold,
I lie awake on a bed that is soft,
Hours later, I find myself asleep on the hard floor.

There is something in the room that I cannot understand,
It is a painting of the hills, and in an instant I can see
the bloodstains on the meadows and blades of grass.
I can't even appreciate a painting anymore