In the whirls of time,
|
turning their eyes
|
toward the shadowy monumental
|
symbols of the past,
|
following the lines up to the places,
|
where power and mystery reign
|
some people raised many stones to the sun
|
in their imposing silence.
|
A warm wind is blowing in my face
|
melting the ice of death.
|
Burnt alive victims around the cromlec¡¯h
|
in honour of my immortality.
|
Crucified on The Oak.
|
My blood is trickling down it
|
no light in this church made of trees
|
some men in white are chanting their song
|
to the altar of Cernunnos.
|
Crucified on The Oak.
|
Oh you, God of Moon,
|
sanctify this magis ritual.
|
In my heart there¡¯s the power of glory,
|
in my eyes the shine of the sword.
|
Oh you, God of Death, rescue me from this fear,
|
I will be your messenger,
|
rescue me from this light.
|
Oh Mother Darkness, receive the son of cruelty and wisdom.
|
Crucified on The Oak, in honour of Esus.
|
The earth is imbued with the blood of my God¡¯s enemies
|
and from flames a battle-cry is madly risen.
|
Far away the death-song is going on with the crossing of the swords.
|
The fog is hiding our temples made of stones
|
and the Gods are silently waiting for the event.
|
The bloody encounter between our Pagan Devotion and the only god.
|
Ruins around The Oak.
|
Corpses in oblivion.
|
Sealed up by the light of reason.
|
Oh, cursed mortals, which is the right way?
|
|
-----------------
|
The Oak
|
| Opera Ix |
