The thunder of the drums is heard and cattle herds are driving back.
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Sunset is driving near,
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The heat of hoofs - all around melt away
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in the shaggy beard of great and wise elder sunset.
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The forests and the mountains surrounding the village
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he covers by golden cloth - the night is drawing near.
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Bonfires blaze up and the flame tongues raise up
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to blacken sky like hands.
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The hearers faces are visible through the flame.
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The grey-haired elder opens the secret of his past,
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through night and fire his word again find the youth.
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His face covered with wrinkles like waterless earth
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shined with life as in his youth.
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And his tale was drifted through the time
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to distant faraways of those days.
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When the steel was like continuation of the hand
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and the warriors were not afraid of their enemies power -
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then moon was shining brighter and sun warned more times than nowadays.
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The forest has been lighted by thousand of bonfires,
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it have been seen that celebration has begun,
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and singing drowned the noise of the wind
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but (the) elder continued this tale.
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When the valor and the honor was valued oved lie and hypocrisy,
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when the pride and the eminence
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was valued over the slavery and the cowardice.
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The enemies cities and villages were on fire!
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Blood and death, screams and mourns - Hell came out!
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The honor and the praise to power.
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The beat of hoofs and crunch of steel,
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the scythe of death flied over this field,
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eyes were looking into eyes and heavens were on fire!
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The warriors heart melted and tears appeared in the old eyes -
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the tears of the real master.
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His hand is clenched in the first,
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the teeth was gritted as that time,
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the ages of victories are over.
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It's now time to wait.
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No sooner that the sun get out of continement
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and the first rays let the birds know that the day had come.
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No sooner that the herds were driving on the pasture
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the hair of the old warrior was streaming by the breeze.
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He'd been looking at the faraways
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and didn't find that the celebration was over.
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His thoughts were with those far times.
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Like a cold shudder passed through his skin.
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He rose and returned back to his house
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not left by the memories about those distant times.
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The honor and praise to power!
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The forgotten ages of victories.
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The Forgotten Ages Of Victories
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Nokturnal Mortum |