Out of the smoke of the machines
A turmoil rises this eve,
Cogs ever turning and changing,
Created and never shall leave.
O where are the trees and the fields?
O wear is the valley and the moor?
Where are the lands of our fathers,
Do they survive anymore?
Why is the king in his tower,
Hanging the man in the street,
Where is the honour of our forbears,
Is lost in this world of deciet?
What happends to the sword and the war horn?
Whence passed the end of this age,
Why do the rich shun the poor ones,
As the kings tax the world and its page.
O I mourn for the love of the oak tree,
O I mourn for the peace of the wood,
And I see the world that we live in,
Where the bomb was invented for ‘good’.
So alone shall I wander, or with a friend,
Through the valleys untouched by this time,
And I miss the life of passed ages,
When the youth of the earth was in prime.