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This is the murdering ground
And this is the killing hour
This is where the cows come home
To be slaughtered
And even the weeds
Do not grow here

This is the call
The final call
To arms
Where the crows and the buzards
Ready themselves for battle

Here is the arena
That is survived by no one
Here is your seat
You've a front row view

Here is death
Is it yours?
Is it mine?

These are the whitness's
In the trees
In the air
Who dig the graves
who morn the scars
Left behind
In the earth and fields
In the rivers and streams

And becomes the earth
As a sponge
Over laden with the bodies
With the blood
With the stench of violence

Do you see how it drips?
Ticking away the seconds
Hours
Days gone by
Into the eyes unseen
Unused
Unwanted
Eyes of the dead
Piled high in the bloody masses

The survivors
Like the rivers
Run sick and sad
Slimy and contaminated
And death does not walk alone
In the killing hour