Come, let’s seek shelter under the dove
So we can delight in her grace,
We fools of peace are too broad to number
Gather up the olive branches, and a root
To soothe and heal the wound,
The dying are never too proud to refuse

The glow of fire outside a church we refuse
The true cowards, into the trenches they dove
Hatred into their hearts was wound
And only false honor could grace
The aim they took to root
Out the enemy of its greater number

For we shall take no census, make no number
Such details are ours to refuse
The youth will never hear us root
For any team in armor, only for the dove
Who moves without the jet engine’s grace
And resists the Eagle and Hawk’s wound

The battlefield and battle is wound
Up in lines beyond number
Oh, Goddess of Peace, your grace,
Halt these armies, refuse
The cuts and blows, where bullets dove
And severed the crimson root

These explosions fade to a charcoal root
Carving into the sweet land a wound
That gives shelter to no dove
See them sprout in great number
And the armies, land ships of fools refuse
To stand by, holding back with grace

Yet through fate, they will grace
Each other and sever the root
Of all mankind, no body will refuse
Becoming a target, receiving a wound,
Doctors will lose the heart to number
Those patched up in gauze as white as a dove

All return to the dove, and plant an olive root
With a voice full of grace, forgetting the wound,
Remembering numbers lost and bodies turned to refuse.