On the northern winds 
I ride Under a dead and pale sky 
With a black cloak of ravenwings 
That carry me over the gloomy hemisphere 
In the darkness of destruction 
Lays an old and cold creature 
Maimed by the power of the witchking 
Bearer of the floods of heathen sorcery 
An aerial servant meets me there 
Beyond the dimension of fear 
And guide me to this darkened place 
Of heathen sorcery 
The witchking is drawing nearer 
Slowly returning from his tomb of hellburning horror 
Demons of demensions turn their their heads 
To the mist avoiding his eyes of delusion 
A blast of a fireball burns my suffering soul of madness to dust 
I can no longer see but 
I hear the snearing laughter as 
I slowly cease 
Possessed by the power of darkness 
Brought to him by the ancient crafts of pagan fears