Peace is not made through theory.
Too many people die in war.
This grief, this pain
can still be felt.
No matter how loud one cries,
this way no peace can be achieved.
The flowers of the meadow,
the small insects have life.
Each life has to be respected;
Where else should peace come from?
Joy and woe are woven fine,
A clothing for the soul divine;
Under every grief and pine
Runs a joy with silken twine.
It is right it should be so;
We are made for joy and woe;
And when this we rightly know,
Through the world we safely go.