My father spoke of soldiers, who once guarded over graves,
although they are erased, their remains still shield the way.
The lanterns on the tombstones, the lanterns from the trees;
fire guides the way, when spirits stray, and stumble through the breeze.
With shovel over shoulder, my heart is getting older,
And soon enough I'll join the soldiers, underneath my feet.
The darkness drawing near, my thoughts becoming clear,
I gaze to the moon, descending soon; my soul is filled with fear.
As I slowly turn away, might not remain another day,
The air is still, a duty fulfilled; the world becomes a grave...