In tattered fields where blind faith prevails,

amongst the cold crosses riddled with holes.

Ants crawl under Napalm skies for illusory honor,

as the free bird chants the buried from distant hills.

Desperate pleas drowned in the fiery lead,

while rusting iron gears slowly grind away hope.

Dreams rot inside blood-soaked trenches,

as the bird weaves its nest beneath money trees.