The fields are green again,
the land regrown and trenches filled
beside the trees,
but mist hangs low between the trees
that men still hide behind.
The enemy is there! we cry, and quick
to fire at the trees at what must be
the thin dark muzzles in the hands
of straightened men,
although to know an enemy by sight
there must return the fire from the trees;
with only silence now we know an enemy
by thought alone.
Come out, come out,
the fields are green again,
disarm thin fingers from rifle-action
and come out of the uniform trees
a known and unknown enemy.