|
Far beyond the trees I can see only wretched fools destiny. |
|
The elder ways are gone from their blood, forgotten. |
|
And in my dreams I die with my weapon drawn, |
|
To slay beside my brothers where I belong. |
|
As our weapons splatter worthless blood. |
|
In bitterness alone, I grow old atop this hill of stone. |
|
The triumphs of my kind will live on when I'm gone. |
|
In my dreams, I die with my weapons drawn. |
|
To leave this world by the ways that I uphold, |
|
And ascend to halls of pure gold. |
|
Bravest of slaves and the great Pagan lords, |
|
I will raise my sword to the proud and pure. |
|
Bravest of slaves and the great Pagan lords, |
|
I will raise my sword to the proud and pure. |
|
Warriors! |
|
With my bloody wounds and foolish heart |
|
By slaughter-wolves, they're torn apart. |
|
The butchering, unworthy kind. |
|
Peace to the storm in my mind. |
|
From the hill, beyond the trees, came a man of victory. |
|
His eyes were old, he raised his sword. |
|
Bravery in eyes of the bold. |
|
And on this day, he dies with his weapons drawn, |
|
Granting glory to his old hero's heart! |
|
Bravest of slaves and the great Pagan lords, |
|
I will raise my sword to the proud and pure. |
|
Bravest of slaves and the great Pagan lords, |
|
I will raise my sword to the proud and pure. |
