A scythe in hand and a fire in heart
The remnants of all that war had brought
I walk down the canals of the underground
Amongst the dead, a flying vagabond.
No memorials would bury me like my lords
Those over which little mice carelessly trod
Scratching their souls that no mortal could touch
As I do, if it hardly batters them so much.
I move grave to grave with no intention
No plans in life, ambitions nor tension
Carrying just the rag that covers me up
And the burden of sins of the soldiers’ blood.
It was a bloody affair, this war and all
Men, brethren, animals all assembled to cull
With no reason but mutual animosity of kind
No kindness spared, vengeance on the mind.
And now I walk amongst the dead
Horse, friend, foe, bullets all spent
With only a scythe to dispel the dark
No victors that war has gained.