Paschendale (Live Dortmund, Germany)

In a foreign field he lay, lonely soldier unknown grave
On his dying words he prays, tell the world of Paschendale

Relive all that he's been through, last communion of his soul
Rust your bullets with his tears. Let me tell you 'bout his years

Laying low in a blood filled trench, killing time 'til my very own death
On my face I can feel the falling rain, never see my friends again

In the smoke in the mud and lead, smell the fear and the feeling of dread
Soon be time to go over the wall, rapid fire and the end of us all

Whistles, shouts and more gun fire, lifeless bodies hang on barbed wire
Battlefield nothing but a bloody tomb, be reunited with my dead friends soon

Many soldiers eighteen years, drown in mud no more tears
Surely a war no-one can win, killing time about to begin

Home, far away, from the war, a chance to live again
Home, far away, but the war, no chance to live again

The bodies of ours and our foes, the sea of death it overflows
In no man's land God only knows, into jaws of death we go

Crucified as if on a cross, allied troops they mourn their loss
German war propaganda machine, such before has never been seen
Swear I heard the angels cry, pray to god no more will die
So that people know the truth, tell the tale of Paschendale

Cruelty has a human heart, everyman does play his part
Terror of the men we kill, the human heart is hungry still

I stand my ground for the very last time, gun is ready as I stand in line
Nervous wait for the whistle to blow, rush of blood and over we go

Blood is falling like the rain, its crimson cloak unveils again
The sound of guns can't hide their shame, and so we die on Paschendale

Dodging shrapnel and barbed wire, running straight at cannon fire
Running blind as I hold my breath, say a prayer symphony of death

As we charge the enemy lines, a burst of fire and we go down
I choke a cry but no-one hears, feel the blood go down my throat

Home, far away, from the war, a chance to live again
Home, far away, but the war, no chance to live again

See my spirit on the wind, across the lines beyond the hill
Friend and foe will meet again, those who died at Paschendale