Bitter branches spreading out.
There is none more bitter than the wood.
Into the white world it grows,
twisting its roots, a swarm of bees,
twisting under soldiers’ feet.
Soldiers, standing in a line,
the damp earth underneath,
holding their rifles high.
Holding their young wives
with white hands.
Hold up the clear glass to see.
Hold up the clear glass and look through;
soldiers standing in formation,
the damp earth underneath,
holding their rifles high.
Their young wives,
with white hands wave goodbye.
Their arms as bitter branches
spreading into the white world.