My home is changing

It seems my home is changing
and I am still the same.
Those wars which still are raging
in far lands whence I came,
they have my soul been ageing
that I do wish again
to be my old rampaging
self I would yet remain

had not I from this tender life
been plucked in awe
at all the majesty of strife,
which seems to poor,
bewildered men, uncut by knife,
to be the core
of all reality and life
and not the straw

which catches fire and burns
in just a flash of time
so short that any who tries the doing of the crime
in years to count must fraternise
a maniacal rhyme
which fills the mind with gnawing lies
that flay esoteric prime.

Oh, that I could live once more
those years now passed away!
There would be no err, no flaw
in all my deeds that day.
Queen and country mean no more
to me than specs of clay,
which from the potter’s wheel
are spattered every day.

But now those years have passed me by,
wishing all undone
will gain me nought and, if I sigh
for moments past and gone,
then will I curse until I die
this hour when not e’en one
friend will tell me - or even try -
ought but "You’ve done wrong".

Where is there I can go
to hide away
from all eternal woe
until the day
when countless love shall flow
(for which I pray)
from God, that all may blow
ill thoughts away.