The sound of war bells ring of horror and death,
A melodious pattern accustomed to grief and death,
The deafening clings echo the painful cry of death,
Drowning the unpleasant hoot of the owl, a messenger of death.
The morning sun rays no longer sparkle the morning dew,
The hovering dark clouds shade a fearful hue,
The village fire’s splinters flicker whenever the cold winds blow,
And the wind’s whistle duets the bell’s dreadful tune.
Clueless young faces drawn with brave stares,
Stiffened, shivering, rigid, rugged bodies,
Emotions interweaving and intertwining cold hearts,
The sudden stamp of spears cannot awaken the gods.
A blinding belief that death will bring hope,
When tears will become victory’s joy,
For the mothers who lose their sons,
The pride of a shield of honor will be their comfort.