Down The Vast Hills In Morning Mist Cold

Into The Peaceful Deep Valley Below.

Twothousand Stallions Foaming With Hate

Carrying Their Masters Towards Their Fate

Into The Battle They Ride

Twothousand Men Too Young To Die.

Massacre......



Coming From Each Side Prepared For Attack

Covered In Dustclouds Now There Is No Turning Back

Once So Peaceful Valley Echoes With Cries

Cascades Of Blood And Brains As The Midday Sun Rise

Under A Bloodred Sky

None Will Live To Face The Night

Massacre......



Amidst The Scattered Limbs Dead Bodies Finally Comes To Peace

While The Stench Of Blood Grows Strong In The Mild Midday Breeze

Circling The Sky The Vultures Wait To Play Their Part

To Descend Of Wings Of Death And Feast From Human Hearts

The Battle Is Lost Still Someone Always Wins

And Now They Descend On Death's Black Wings

Massacre......

(Massacre......)