If war's the father of all things,
Their mother, then is peace.
The plants that fill our beds -- each springs
From autumn's seed release.
Deep tensions make the seeds they spread
Into the fertile ground,
But peace provides the womb, the bed
For fruits to grow, abound.
Cooperation helps us reap
Our fruits and spread them wide --
Then autumn comes and we dig deep
To plan what you'll abide.
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