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