He wished a place where life was still And silence spread on nearby hill. Nothing was heard except the stream Whose water rushed, calling to dream.
He pitched his tent on the green bank Where trills of birds forbade to think, And heard with nature calmness tune Away from bombs and horrid groan.
The birds of sky did flee from men Their rifles and bombs hoped to shun. Not only birds but men themselves Had got fed up with blood and knives.
Men left their hit homes and their streets And in calm nature pitched their tents. They fled from men to live with beasts Which blood-shed for them was not feasts.