Ray Bradbury. Braid (№ 233700)

And then, choking with sobs, again and again he swung his scythe and cut left and right, left and right, left and right. And another, and another, and another. Mowing down huge wedges in green wheat and ripe wheat, not choosing or caring, cursing, more cursing, convulsed with laughter, and the blade flew up, shining in the sun, and went down with a singing whistle!
Down!
The bombings rocked Moscow, London, Tokyo.
Spit flew up and down like crazy.
And lit ovens of Belsen and Buchenwald.
KOs sang, covered in crimson dew.
And grew mushrooms, spewing blinding sun on the Sands of Nevada, Hiroshima, Bikini, mushrooms grew higher and higher.
Wheat cried, shattering on the ground with green rain.
Korea, Indochina, Egypt. Worried India, flinch Asia, deep in the night woke up Africa...
And the blade continued to fly, to destroy, to cut with the rage of a man who has robbed and taken away so much that he had nothing to do with how he treats humankind.