Ill winds sing of foul deeds done,
‘neath Mother Moon and Father Sun,
twixt god and man this doom doth ride
scouring lands for rightful bride,
‘cross blackened Earth cursed with blight,
through godless day and pagan night,
the song of steel, and bright red morn,
on killing fields where dead are born,
amongst these dead our hero stands,
grips his sword in bloodstained hands,
bathed in light of pre-dawn glow,
he turns to face his age-old foe,
cries for love, for life, for death,
he slays the beast with his last breath,
and as he answers deaths sweet call,
about the earth a soft rain falls.