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Chain tracks weep for the corridor

Slopes and worms and soil unfirm

Treetops blow, sawdust-covered paths hiding the war

It is as if they were trying to steer a raft with but their skull in the waters, nodding to keep afloat

Out of a thousand, one to radiate, to know the coming:

In the midst of the marsh there is a hill to die on

Bunkers have withered, supply trails have sunken in the mud

But how it does obscure a true face

Is it about one's foot to sacrifice for a ripped piece of cloth to shield but a despicable head from the cold

Out of a thousand, one to radiate, to know the coming:

In the midst of the marsh there is a hill to die on