Just up the road from my wife and me
A fire’s burning constantly
Folks just like us are in the street
No food to eat
Nowhere to sleep
Afraid to stay
Afraid to go
Nothing of their lives to show
But the clothes on their backs
And the shoes on their feet
And countless bloodstains
In the snow
And the glow
From the flames
And the charred remains
Of their homes
And the broken bones
The bullet holes
And frightened souls
The bodies lying in the street
Tears of desperation and defeat
We take them in as neighbours do
We know that this could be us too
From here to Ukraine the kilometres
Add up to a mere five hundred and two
Peace in four languages …
Мир (Bulgarian), Mír (Czech), Peace (English) and Síocháin (Irish).
On a World War One memorial in Ypres, Belgium.