Grey smoke hangs low on the hill
The heavy air is frozen still
Iron wheels carved a deep red line
The clock has stopped on a broken sign
Steel in the mud where the water flows
Deep in the dirt where the clover grows
One hollow shell for a lonely head
Resting alone where the ground is red
Distant thunder rolls through the haze
Burning a path through the autumn maze
Oil spills black on a silver stream
Tearing apart a soldier's dream
Steel in the mud where the water flows
Deep in the dirt where the clover grows
One hollow shell for a lonely head
Resting alone where the ground is red
Boot prints press in the heavy clay
Washing the gold of the morning away
Brass casings shine in the midday glare
Cold winter wind in the open air
Steel in the mud where the water flows
Deep in the dirt where the clover grows
One hollow shell for a lonely head
Resting alone where the ground is red
The glockenspiel rings like a Sunday bell
A quiet hymn for a living hell
No one is left to call out a name
The wild wind blows on a dying flame
Rain washes clean every rusted plate
The iron gates close a heavy fate
A single strap holds a piece of tin
Where the long winter of war begins
Steel in the mud where the water flows
Deep in the dirt where the clover grows
One hollow shell for a lonely head
Resting alone where the ground is red
Sinking deep.
Steel in the mud.
Just a piece of tin.
Sinking deep.
