Soldiers march on, soldier no more,
For them, leaders had no encore,
A furious charge, banners once held high,
Accompanied by thunderous warcry,
Now bereft of identity and goal,
Reborn as survivors from the ashes.
The black shroud underneath eyeflesh scurries away,
Light, carried by wind, ray by ray -
Now a chilling gale, freezing dirt and bone alike,
Siberian taiga of icy mud grey,
Scattered spear, abandoned pike,
Then a cooling breeze, envoy of a sea's winter,
Ragged flags wave on mild browns and grime decay,
Far away as despairs splinter,
- But come what may, we march on to a brighter day,
Brother, we walk the lonesome way.