In a silent morning haze, under desolate trees of old
loom scattered shelters of some infantry troops.
Dawn burns east as every morning yet some unknown
tension freezes the air and the warriors grow wary
in spirit and heart...

Suddenly clouds of dust rise above the pale horizon
and the watchmen spring to their feet. Sound of horns
stirs up a warcry and the host lines up for attack!

Horns of war pierce the air
Warriors clad in shining mail
Swords and leather, fire and steel
Clash of iron, grim whet spears

Into the battlestorm...the heads of the fallen are
shattered under hoofs and chariot wheels, blades cut man
by man and the soil is soaked in blood : thousands of
slaves are working afield, reaping the harvest of death...

Yet as the dark draws nigh
And dusk falls on the menacing peace
White ghosts of war-men long reapen here -
Faces of horror and dread and of throe -
Then roam among the countless bodies
Hewn upon the battlefield

Oh, drive away the carrion
And bury your peers
And then mourn as you can
And rejoice as you dare to
Until the horns of war sound again
This is a warrior's destiny
To solemnly loaf
And await the sound of the horns.