“Best cheer the path of the men victorious,
⁠For he is dead and his blade lies broken.
His march is far where no aid can follow,
⁠And for his people he left no token;
He left no token, the dead soldier.”

The way of the sword a man can follow,
⁠See the young child with his gold hair gleaming.
When falls the oak must the acorn perish?
⁠He lifts the blade and his eyes are dreaming;
He dreams the dream of the dead soldier.
⁠