The clash has finished
the fields turned red,
the guests come with the wind
claiming their feast.
Your souls are our harvest,
your corpses are fodder for the raven
They come for glory.
They found sorrow.
the fields turned red,
the guests come with the wind
claiming their feast.
Your souls are our harvest,
your corpses are fodder for the raven
They come for glory.
They found sorrow.