Hollow Drums of War

Upon the field of morning pale. We miss like ghostly banners sail.

We stand in trembling line of men, too young to die,

too far from them. Our hearts beat slow, our steel grows

cold. We march to fate, we can't withhold. The raven circles

black and still. It waits for blood, it waits its fill.

Oh, hollow drums beat not for me. Your song is death's dark melody.

I fight no war for crown or creed. I fight for breath,

for life, for need. The wind it whispers through my mail.