Sunday, July 31, 2005

Transilvanian Hunger (4)



Naberg arose,

close by Mannaheimen garden
Axetime, swordtime, there was not war

yet the plague of pestilence.
No one hosted their kindred,

none the priest,
No one went to town,

without their lance and on horseback.

In the dawn of time they sang songs,

to themselves and their fathers.
Today only songs

for the betterment of tomorrow are sung.
Songs of our fellow man,

no songs about the best.
Deceit and lies has gained its seat

on the palace of the Midgard Jotuns.

One man wandered, slowly,

surely, proud there between houses.
He wandered there among the people,

stepped uncared there among mice.
Hundreds of men he visited,

each cold night.
He was one eyed, tall and thin

and on his head he wore a hat.

Lonely man he wandered,

over Bifrost one cold morning.
He shook his head,

over the losses of man.
For they assured themselves a seat,

in an unborn tragic heaven,
They wandered north and nie,

they rot in Hell's peace


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