In the dark middle ages those brave men,
they rode to the bloody fight.
Metal was their only friend,
sword in hand they prepared to die.
Smoke flows on the fields, as they grapped their shields, waiting for that bird to be a guide.
As it's eyes still burn, no one returns
from the mighty battle of time.

Straight through their destiny,
the bird still flies and leads.
Don't be afraid to die my friend,
no mortal lives in the skies.

One thousand horses run on the hill of Norfolk.
As the swords still flash in air, brave ones fall to
their graves. Only one will lead the way, victory
of mighty ones. Tale of braves and immortals,
the night of Black Swan.

No salvation, no molten cries
in the fury of the night.
Hammer of steel still rules the fire,
darkred wine of the gods.
Into the glory of the roar,
DRAGONS (dragons, dragons, dragons)
blessed their blades with fire.
Class of honour still calls power
as they taste the bitter of my blood.

Tales of the brave, The Night Of Black Swan.