The sun is setting it burns the sky,
and red and yellow fire cast
the ground a golden rye.
Was once we saw these fields plowed
some thousands well-nigh labored.
‘Twas morning late and industry bellow
rewarded above all favor.
Passing moments all threads in time,
each pleading softly stay, but
that choice was never mine.
Was once the future memory recalled
a path long late, forgotten
In evening deep that grand plateau
built on our corpses, rotting.
