With the night the battle subsides,
And the field becomes desolate and empty,
Leave you from heaps of fallen men,
And ravens that fly there.
The cutting sound of the The screams of the wounded,
The bloody, sweet stench of corpses
Fills the air, after all that happened.
He stands and looks over the dying land,
When the moon comes out;
Remembers wife and children, and now he bestows
No thought but them.
A quiet wind blows among the trees,
Carries the sound of victory horns In the distance;
Now can he finally return home.

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