The battlefield speaks to the crimson sea
Wondering if the heros are still fighting
The sky whispers to the fiery battlefield
Telling it the pilots are still flying high

A myriad of years tasting pain, hearing prays
And seeing blood flip-flop onto the auburn soil like rain onto a window
Nights and days cries of children and wails of adults, an unending orchestra
In a heaven that awaits peace and freedom to march home

The last Rumba, yet to begin and the first musical pulse, yet to be heard.