The Fog (...and Grief Still Moans)


Over the high hills the wind carries 
 The voice of the old man-magus, herald of the death 
 His news are echoing in the distance, 
 Breaking the rest of the Earth 

 Proud birds sing their song 
 To heroes of the fights and to defeated 
 To their pure souls and to their unbending will 

 Deep waters of the river fly 
 Hide bodies of the fallen 
 Taking souls and healing wounds 

 In the fog of cold gloom 
 Grief's moaning is heard 
 The moaning of the destroyed destinies 
 And the spell of the old man.