A painting of a man with a horned head and a sword

Make his fight on the hill in the early day Constant chill deep inside Shouting gun, on they run through the endless grey On they fight, for the right, yes, but who's to say? For a hill, men would kill, why? They do not know Stiffened wounds test their pride Men of five, still alive through the raging glow Gone insane from the pain that they surely know For whom the bell tolls Time marches on For whom the bell tolls

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