Here, in the torn fields of Poland,
Is a wagon on a road, all alone.
Its paint gone and the wood dampened,
Nothing itself it, all picked to the bone.
Further along this lonely place,
Is a house, abandoned and disgraced.
Glass scattered across the floor,
Precious memories are nevermore.
In the distance, the ruins are seen,
Of a town that witty and alive.
Oh, if the townsfolk had been more keen,
Then perhaps the attack that could survive.
Alas, they are gone as the air grows cold,
The hum of the planes and roar of tanks forebode.
The Second War of the Worlds is upon the land,
Perhaps this time, peace shall be able to forever stand.