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For everything around me which I experience is cold and dead |
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The blood of others are of a colder substance and taste |
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Therefore I must spill and serve, |
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The blood that in me runs vibrant |
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In the frost of the dying minds, |
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Of Western society I recreate |
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It will be the resurrection, |
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Of the brotherhood of holy death |
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In the year of the Holy Roman Empire, |
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Of night times to come and last |
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The day of which I shall, |
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Lay my sword upon your throats |
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Upon the mighty warriors, |
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Of the land of northern regions |
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Upon the shores of our desolate coast within the waves |
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I can see the wreckage floating ashore of the dying culture |
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And so I greet those who still have eyes to observe and see |
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And who still have courage to break through into the dying light |
