I’ve just got married.
A tin ring at my finger, nothing more.
Because gold and silver is all gone
to make the country’s good.

I’ve still orange blossom in my pocket
And a love letter which I wrote for him.

But then they lifted me up into a wagon:
That’s where my honey-moon has been.
A forced trip with other cattle to be slaughtered
In amongst the cold, the stench, the hunger.

Love words in this hell.
I’m nothing but a number now.
And how can a number speak of love?