Outside in the desert
Withered and burnt
On mountains long ago turned to ice
Buried under debris
Covered with stones
Buried in the meadow and the forest
On the bottom of the sea
Between algae and corals
Lie those who fell on the field of honour
All around are bare stones
And a sky cold as steel
There is no name, no prayer and no number*
They are ground in bone-mills
Burnt in embers
Drawn and quartered
Choked on their own blood
They are hanged on a thousand gallows
Shot in the field
Gassed, stabbed, starved to death
For honour and for gold
And the reaper plays his song
For the dead in the belly of the Earth
Ashes to ashes
And dust to dust
Will be the meadow, forest and field
Under a read poppy field are rotting
The bones of the righteous ones
Ever since the beginning of the world
They are cheated out of life
Disfigured through their faith
Blinded and stupid
Have robbed the arsonist themselves
They have perished before their time
Directed and betrayed
(They) are their own murderer, judge, executioner
(They) were the masters of their death.
And the reaper plays his song...
*meaning that the stones/graves are many, innumerable