The morning mist holds over clover low
not bright - the rays of the new rise of Sol.
Acerb the air; the land, unploughed below.
Unseen, are swords, some spears and shields of Gauls.
In conflicts, tides change with each wave, brave die.
For what wives cry out noble estates of kings?
When comes time for vendange, should we not cry?
Afield, inert young men whose souls get wings.
Bring peace and calm to those who fought so hard
We cry we pray! Nowise are, land wars won.
Just farms and fields, loved wives and moms left scarred.
Then suffer through loss, do not feel the sun.
We start! As mist gives up its clutch on land.
We must lay claim to them! The brave farmhand.
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