On a day when men have paid,
The cost of soul for war,
The heaven sends its' rain,
As a testimonial,

The cost is high; the price to die,
Yet so many shed their blood,
Some by night or by fair sky,
But those appointed grace the mud,

Past our understanding, so is our destiny,
To live or die, tis not our own; owning is conquering,
For men to die for freedom's cry tis the finest chivalry,

Once was the battle cry of these very men,
Now in mud their crimson blood paints the winding way,
A prey for birds, their bodies burn and turn to dust again,
Who would know that it would rain today?

On blood stained ground the rain drops pound,
They hit their mark once more,
The drums are heard all around,
As they play again for war!