I have a song about war, called The Cold Days of February.
The Cold Days of February
Sat writing words strange and steady
Amongst my own internal choir
Came voices to my mind unready
Of those who died on either side
Of those who died on either side
While their friends cry or their bones unburied
No sighing through the northeast wind
These cold days of February
These cold days of February

Some clerk with papers and his pen
Some banker with his poison pity
Some clerk with his poison pity
Some captain careless of his men
And these vandal flames that maim the cities
And bigots in the name of Christ
By thorny paths
Obscure and muddy
By thorny paths
Obscure and muddy
Can appear to roam
Through years of cold
Bewailing how
Their hands are bloody
Now whether they were from here or there, their race and place I would not be leading.
The men who caused such bitterness, and if not, they have let their hearts be bleeding.
Only the four-aged or the young child would turn their shield off, the arms they carried.
Go bear the guilt of being away.
Parting all the days of memory.
Parting all the days of memory.