I never made a way out of hell
neither did I come from sub-sections of hatred
the blossoms are too rigid
the night cries blood, what if I am just a stranger? ...
DEAD, with their eyes to the foe,
Dead, with the foe at their feet;
Under the sky laid low
Truly their slumber is sweet,
Though the wind from the Camp of the
Slain Men blow,
And the rain on the wilderness beat.