Horn - A Hill to Die On

Chain tracks weep for the corridor
Slopes and worms and soil unfirm
Treetops blow, sawdust-covered paths hiding the war
It is as if they were trying to steer a raft with but their skull in the waters, nodding to keep afloat

Out of a thousand, one to radiate, to know the coming:
In the midst of the marsh there is a hill to die on

Bunkers have withered, supply trails have sunken in the mud
But how it does obscure a true face
Is it about one's foot to sacrifice for a ripped piece of cloth to shield but a despicable head from the cold

Out of a thousand, one to radiate, to know the coming:
In the midst of the marsh there is a hill to die on