There is a field beyond the sea.
It's all too fair to in world be.
It is a field of flowers red,
resting silent in their bed.
The field is huge, the field is fair,
it's an escape and angels' lair.
It doesn't lie, it doesn't grow,
it doesn't kill and seeds don't throw.
The elvens play among the threes
and angels watch, they do all see.
The flowers play on petals red,
a music lovely from their bed.
They all rejoice in body one
and play beneath the truthfull sun.
She's smiling down at poppy red
and elvens white who play in bed.
And fairies small, they fly around,
they are by beauty to poppy bound.
They do her see, they do her smell,
they do her call, but never yell.
But underneath the playful ground
the wicked are, but make no sound.
They have there been for many years
and yet not spoken nor shed tears
Await the day that is to come.
The day has come to rise from thombe.
With reposing power since many years
they rise to ground like angry bears.
They power gain to slain all beauty.
Destroy and slay is their only duty.
They never look at those they kill,
they never care whose blood they spill.
The poppy red it waggers to,
it waggers from to save a few.
But demons kill with swords in hand,
and spread their foul breath in the land.
And blood is spilled onto the bed,
the blood of elvens, of pure red.
The poppy cries from violated bed
with drops of tears, which are so red.
The elvens' dresses, which were so white,
are filted red with swords that bite.
They'll never see the sun again.
Today died children, women and men.
The red, red field is now stamped down,
they will here build the demons' town.
Instead of poppy red
there will be evil roses in their bed.