Must we of war forever ply our trade?
Or shall we soon from our own past diverge?
Will we survive to march in our parade?
Or shall we die but lines within the dirge?
My strength is you if thus I must go on,
At night I dream you rest in my embrace.
Your presence flees again at break of dawn,
Again the sun alights what I must face.
If ever home to you I do return,
Forgive me those things which I must now do.
For though my love for you will ever burn,
This beast within must see me safely through.
The drums, they call; they call me back afield.
If kill I must, I pray you love me still.