Rose petals falling
Like rusted dead butterflies
No more songs
Shall fill the trenches tonight
Our throats are all sore
From the singing
We are left quenching with thirst
And we are dying without hope
Was all that we suffered but in vain
Whom tomorrow would forget?
Was all that we called culture
Spirit and soul
All that was beautiful and sacred
Nothing but a ghost long dead?
Which only a few fools like us
Took for true and living?
Had it perhaps indeed never been true
Nor living?
Had all that we poor fools
Bothered our heads about
Never been anything but a phantom?
I see rose petals falling.... Everywhere
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