| The memory lingers on of the arrival of dawn
|
| They saw the beacon aflame
|
| Burning with sorrow for the lives that would be lost
|
| And the troops went ashore
|
| Sounds of drums filled the air
|
| Towards the city they marched
|
| Called all the young ones, called the old
|
| Summoned the people to stand up and be bold
|
| Fight a superior force for high society
|
| Sheltered behind the walls
|
| Holding the riches that forever could be lost
|
| Outside the city gates
|
| The peasant army fights on
|
| Towards their imminent doom
|
| Cross the Field of Sorrow children’s soul still cry
|
| As an echo from the blackened day
|
| Cross the Field of Sorrow
|
| There are whispers and sighs
|
| From burning anguish and dismay
|
| From the protection of walls
|
| Beheld the blood stained plains
|
| Reeking of sacrifice’s shame
|
| Children and cripples of the battle that was lost
|
| Trembling hands open the gates
|
| For the extortion of fire
|
| As they had nowhere to hide
|
| Fill up the barrels and chests with all your gold
|
| Build me a throne to rest upon
|
| Fear not the fate of the fallen
|
| Hear not the cries of the crows
|
| And so they sailed off with the gold
|
| In the midst of the sea
|
| They were caught by a storm
|
| Both booty and crew’s lying deep |