Through many fields I’ve wandered,
and after days of endless marching,
they all appear the same;
air hung thick with angry smoke,
and the ground shaded in ruby stains.
The wind carries on its shoulders
the spirits of those who are gone,
and has left this task to those still left.
And so we march on.
The days are filled with marching
you hope will never end,
for each and every place we rest,
the wind recruits our men.