'Neath me have clubbed the agony of farfetched truths,
Into a subtle melody of their war cries.
My land has weeped the tears of a son's cry and bled waters of a father's.
Long in the anguish of one too cold.
For the brethren 'neath us speak in the old cherished tongue.
Have we come to shed a light in the burried hearts of our warriors,
Or carry on with covers of flesh on our eyes into the illusion of the brightness beyond.