They muster yet again near the walls.
A bell rings. A warning.
As a horn blows, men run and, as the rain falls,
The white horses march once again.
The first wave of attack breaks the line.
The screams of men can be heard from afar.
The rain falls, steady and fine,
The white horses charge through the breakers.
They slowly advance, wave after wave.
Working their way closer to the barricade.
Taking many a good man to his grave,
The white horses are gaining ground.
The wind and hail starts, whipping up a storm
And the endless army continues on.
Getting nearer to the fortress, they're stronger, transformed.
The white horses are at the ramparts.
Then, suddenly, a bell rings out.
The attack ceases, and time stands still.
The army stops in a flourish, and so begins the rout
The white horses rear, and are fleeing the field.
The fleeing army returns from whence it came,
And cheers ring out in the city.
For they've won this round of the endless game.
The white horses – the sea – versus the land, and we.