In the Depths of Black Hills (Khors)

The gods take away the lives of warriors, Choosing the very best ones. Families are crying for the dead, Farewelling their souls. The haze is covering the tops of the hills, The ravens are flying over them. Cold wind blowing away Ashes of burial flame. Old wolf at the edge of the wood Looks with his tired old eyes At the celebration of glory And the greatness of death.