Where smoke and fire scar a scene we've lost to history.
Comrades leave the corpses, those naive to victory.
"But armor does not tire, even hanging onto bone."
Those ragged men recite this creed, when they die alone.

Leaders speak of fate and fear to hopeful crowds of eyes.
"No one makes the tacit choice of death without reprise."
Solace leaves the hearts of those wise enough to know
awful sights, which wait out there, and its audio.
"Can you hear the thunder of a thousand steel boots?
Will you heed the call of gods from armored metal suits?"

Iron plates and sundered fates rest the minds of men.
Even though they never know how it starts again.
Irrelevant as it's all become,
death never breaks with morning's sun.
Below white clouds, hear the tantrum drum,
the stinking sound of melee begun.