The Dead Have No Regrets

Are you sure the dead had no regrets?
In their worn-out clothes, grey and red

When they went out to fight, when they returned half alive

Daughters of bakers, sons of shoe makers

They berate them for choosing to pick up a sword

The wind goes through the leaves of autumn

When a poor child realises he has to

No more teenage memories, they take up rifles

They manage to stay up, laughing the night off

But when the horn’s sound roams, the adrenaline rushes

They are quick to think,

But their death is slow to process

Are you sure the dead had no regrets?

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