Soldiers Hands Testo

trouble's brewing in the ranks
broken (knot?) on every flag
and all the soldiers' hands were red
from all the tears and blood that's shed
and in the morning when the reveille
pulls us from more sleep
puts a fracture in the reverie
and kills our quiet dreams
widow waits
a solemn look upon her face
time is lost in love and war
remember what you're waiting for
then the morning when the enemy
fire among the
sounds like voices in analogy