Less passionate, the long war throws

Its burning thorn about all men,

Caught in one grief, we share one wound,

And cry one dialect of pain.

We have forgot who fired the house,

Whose easy mischief spilt first blood;

Under one roof we lie;

The fault no longer understood.

But as our twisted arms embrace

The desert where our cities stood

Death’s family likeness in each face

Must show at last our brotherhood.

Laurie Lee (1914-1997), 2006.