From the east to the west
All that waits for me is the grave
I have been where my brothers lay fallen
And my kind are as slaves

Bloodied yet unbowed
I sing a song of the tomb
Of the cold and heathen earth
Of the Gods that await me
I raise a glass in your name

For when the sun rise again
To our deaths like condemned men

This is the twilight of the ages
And no man shall stand

I sing a song of the tomb
Of the cold and heathen earth
With virgin voice to poisoned womb
I call to the shadowed kind
To men of myth, etched in stone
Whose songs are heard no more
The women of the barren lands
This is your time

["Our myths are steeped in blood and tragedy and the grim acceptance of fate. The difference between these myths and the lessons they teach us and the modern day are virtually non existant. A man's life, decided by the warmongers, by the blade of a knife, a bullet from a gun or a bomb is no different from the warmongers and warriors of legend. We write our own legends today, here and now, yet always with blood."]