By callow bodies, fallow fields, and old,
We march again to fight our battles long.
Through drifting snows and whipping winds in cold,
With plowshares beaten into swords and song.

Our sixteen summers’ boiling heat in blood,
We chase away the numbing cold of cliffs—
A slip away from death in icy mud,
In steel and prayer, bearing crimson gifts.

By smoke and dust, we end by bitter vow;
In breath and bone, the death for us to shape.
On blood and ice, we see all shattered—woe;
Through glass and light, and see no true escape.

Our valor, shield; our spite, a spear we wield,
And here we stand with eyes bright and spines steeled.