Worse than the cries of grown men turning me fearful
Is the silence of the night
Worse than the shrills of executed people
Is the calm before the great fight
Coming to terms with being confronted by what I cannot face
Resigned to the fact, this could very well be my final resting place
So with the inevitable engagement close at hand
logic would discard panic, to formulate a plan
And if I am the one who lay
Whenever the smoke might clear
Let the one standing tall know
Of him, I had no fear