I walk under an open sky.
I look around for a way to die.
The Horde is dead.
The ground soaked red.
Everytime I hear a noise,
I look to the past and see my boys.
Twenty seven men of angered heart,
Young and strong, with life's full start.
I gaze across the battlefield,
The enemy looks to graves he will soon fill.
Friends and mates, comrades split twain,
Who died to render the enemy the same.
Death himself walks this field.
Only a few does he yield.
One day, with him I will go,
And Hell will fill with soft white snow.