Barren smoke the gun ignite,
Fire rage from next one sight.
Death before the souls in gear,
That march in rows with constant fear.
For looms the blood and gore galore,
Keep the stage of dead to store.
As hearts of will survive this day,
Beyond the field of smoke and ray.
For souls that strive with taker’s tool,
Given charge like common fools.
A dot of crows in shoulder row,
Ignite the hopes they falsely grow.
As flags they wield with hearts enflame,
And better against to greater fame.
Let the cries of dog commence,
Let Reaper Death be here to relent.
For this the soul, all true in right,
Be judge upon the ghostly scythe.