Do you see the smoke over there,
Rising, curling, billowing through the air?
At the base of that is fire,
Of burning wood, a pyre.

Wrapped in cotton
And string used on mutton;
Tied at both ends
The length varies and depends.

There are people there,
More than those at a fair.
But they are silent now
By fate or by vow.

You see that trail smooth?
Worn down by wood to move.
One after one after one,
Another lit when one is done.

A son, a daughter, a brother,
A sister, a father, a mother.
Do you hear that call for more?
They are the price of war.