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Yeethai
walder
staishlaw
ga,
tlande
iskoon
fashbaw
thloolm,
Oosenflaukh
chaeg
awde
nal,
tlande
aahuhngtagaa
raapthingi
basheln,
Aazraw
saesh
ga
dema
bashen
aidoogren
awtluh
otlai
baeyaa,
Mauluhmpeed
ese
olsenraapaa
kothai
stoob
nalee
ga.
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Beneath the wide sky where the autumn winds play,
A boy knelt in soil, where his soldiers lay.
From the box at his side, he cast them around,
A scatter of warriors upon the dirt mound.
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Wendesketleste
oosenmelkeeyor
Maudaegeed,
Yelzos
yuhneechaw,
Oot
chaeg
mauyaindnaakee
ga
aagraagen
awtluht
otlai
doo.
“Felde
raapthingi,”
awkan
bashen
“aacheshlabroot
aw
rawf
tluhl,
Thoowen
aw
paashleh
basheln,
thoowen
otlai
induhtlooh.”
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Disorder reigned first, a chaos untamed,
Yet the boy, undeterred, would see it reframed.
“For soldiers,” he said, “must stand in their line,
Each in their station, each by design.”
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Bashen
eethaes
ebri
wendeskewen
ga,
Kadreehwik
ga,
draugeyeewen
ga,
Awlbramool ese khawshaw
thleez
aw
droogfik
ga,
Raile
de
igen
uhrawf
ga,
tichee
kuhbaang
aw
ro,
otlai
ootshawkes
yuhneeluhmpee
e
etzawg
thoo.
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He reached for the first, the Private, the least,
A bearer of burdens, a cog in the beast.
These men hold the line, with rifles in hand,
The steadfast foundation of any command.
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