Chatear-me-ia morrer tão joveeeeem

Oh, little soldier, jaunting happily towards the war, you pay no heed to the red petal you carry, marking the ones who'll fall. Such petal is the sign of the mustard yellow death that will smother you in the pestiferous, muddy trenches. Not, however, without introducing you to some of the damned that have left already, and who are waiting for you in the fields of desolation.