A slow kill in the white, harsh realms,
whence wraiths breathe thy wilted valour,
– harbingers of a wretched hollowness –,
akin to wintry swirls of the Unlight’s chant,
the last flickering embers of a long forsaken foe …
Yet, amidst bitterness thou wander the path so cold!
Life turns into perpetual frost and frost turns to eternal rime .
Verily, Thurses plough their malice:
their bleak harvest, full of sorrow
strewn about thy years,
whilst Man weeps for the morrow
and the morrow never nears …
Thither, unbound, the Wolf
approaches from the North;
Venoms of a final winter’s
jaws bathe the ground .
Waging axes shatter,
kinships perish swiftly!
Its tempest of a myriad spoiling onslaughts,
while Hel calls mankind to final rest:
May keen vigour salute the utter twilight!
Anon, it were adders drink from the feeble wounds of thine!
Seasons forced to writher, – all virtues swept away –,
nigh Fimbulwinter’s dusk …
Transcendence …
A monumental wrath of thy Fallen …
Immortality …
At one with Vindsval's blight …
Serenity ...
A mournful passing in dreadful grief …
