Children of war

If you are pure without without a stain
Like the unchanging sun
Then transmit the enclosed letter
To only those who shall suffer and mourn

I tell no common tale of grief
Of those slaughtered innocents
For whose doom I am weeping
Whose passing bell is none
Who ate the sour grape of man's inhumanity
Where nymphs play rustic sounds of death
Where they fell; there they died
Lay still and fertilizers the field

Here lies their works and their bones
And life itself resigns, in a silent grave
You can throw uncommon sight