The hill is carved from ruin.        
Its soil runs black from ash and blood,
Its twisted grass grows amongst the mines.
Its trees give shade to the thousand leaves
That give shelter to the restless dead.

We fight for glory, they fight for honor,
Yet neither seems to fight for peace.
The West was said to be hell on earth,
So what did that make the East?

Over the hill lies a dreaded enemy,
One who concedes no quarter.
Who knows no mercy, nor knows our peace.
A dreaded enemy of alien nature,
As we may seem to be.

Now I hold the hand of the dreaded enemy.
Christ, he’s just a boy!
His blood mingles with the tears that stream,
He chokes out a curse, and dies.

Whether to me or to his ancestors,
I know not, nor can I care.
The cyanide pills have come around,
It’s time to take back that hill.