Death among the corn

In the wheatfield, among corn and poppies,

lies a soldier, undiscovered

now for two days already, and two nights;

with heavy wounds, unbound.

Tormented by thirst and wild with fever,

in the throes of death, he lifts his head.

A last dream, a last image,

he rolls his breaking eyes upwards.

The scythe whispers in the cornfield,

he sees his village in peaceful toil,

adieu, adieu, you world of home -

and bows his head and departs.