She walked the fields that morn,
              bodies dead and mangled - all torn.
          One - barely alive - His eyes did
beckon,                    "I'll hold him now,
  To die I reckon."

          Head fallen slack in her arms,
             he died that day near her farm.
          Their day would come - born anew,
              to be chosen like angels few.

          Some far away time - some distant place,
              there sat a lost and kindly face.
                    She'd found him once again!
          He held no rifle. It was a pen..