In the empty battlegrounds,

  where there long had been no sound.

  All the dead have laid in peace,

  all their souls have been released.

  Scattered through the battlefield,

  weapons used against the fiends

  lay discarded and forgotten,

  their metallic soul is rotten,

  yet the will continues on.

  Such desire can't be drawn.

  All the weapons yearn to fight,

  yearn to show the nations might.

  And those battle cries amidst

  inches closer a deep mist.

  In the mist there stood a man

  with no legs, no face, no hands.

  Was he there, or was he not?

  Weapons pondered as they rot.

  But surprising all the arms

  they felt touch of thousand arms

  pick them up, up from the ground.

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  They began looking around.

  All their masters have long died,

  yet the weapons didn't cry.

  They yearned battle, they yearned war,

  that was what they were made for.

  So the mist began to form

  into creatures uniform.

  Blades were pulled out of the ground,

  cannons digged up all around,

  guns have touched a misty hand,

  spears were ready on command.

  All the arms were now renewed,

  shining brightly, like brand new.

  All the creatures from the mist

  raised a shining silver fist.

  In a language yet unknown

  they had sang a battle song.

  Marching through the battlefield

  they wont rest, nor will they yield.

  Any rotting broken soul

  quickly disappeared from all,

  all the wounds it has been dealt

  by the army clad in lead.

  Carrying a silver fist

  they would come out from the mist.

  While they marched out of the fog

  they would sing their battle song:

  "We lost once, we wont again.

  A new form we all have gained.

  Carrying the arms of steel

  we will make the fiends all kneel.

  We are blind, but we all see

  what it means to become free.

  We shall help you, come along.

  March with us and sing this song."

  In the distant, solid mist

  out appeared a golden fist.

  All the misty men of lead

  started marching on ahead.

  It was the strange foggy man

  with no face, no legs, no hands.

  As he watched the army grow,

  he went back to the unknown.

  To the mist, the dark and thick,

  where he spent all time to think

  how he could begin to fly,

  fly up high and reach the sky.

  For the sky was his domain.

  He had dreamed to soar again.

  Maybe, if the army grows.

  Maybe, if up high he goes.

  If the soldiers he will climb.

  Maybe, he will reach the sky.