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.