I rake the still hot embers of burnt out fires of past conflicts,
hoping to yet unearth still glowing coals of human goodness,
whilst in the deep pit of Hell, weak and discarded congregate.
My own constant weakness, denies even the right to help them.
As I lose faith in myself, my feelings of right still prevails.

Covering my weak tearful eyes with a sackcloth veil of black,
and in the dark valley of the dead, a sombre bugle sounds.
All that now remains, are wasted countries led by Warmongers,
gathering their ill gotten gains in sacks made of human flesh,
as the bodies of our Braves lay silent in anti-glory.