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Let me tell you this tale of lords |
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Who came from remote lands |
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To steal the sacred lance |
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To the ones born by frost. |
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They were waiting for the nightfall |
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When wolves slept, the stick of sway |
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Was snatched from its room |
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But the winter saw what they had done. |
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And the wind blew towars the shining wisdom well |
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Where the supreme fighter was keeping watch... |
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So they were destined to die at dawn |
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When the early rising horse touched the sky |
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And it lighted up their haunt. |
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Then he went hunting for the midnight thieves, |
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Guided by his ravens, throughout the nine worlds, |
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Attracted by the smell of fear just like worms. |
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And a dull caw was the encounter sign |
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Between the hunter and his prey. |
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The morning clouds began to cry, |
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And his anger became unstoppable, |
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The fighter rushed the intruders group, |
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And a lightning crossed the tears. |
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Thousands of bits of flesh and blood |
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Remained on the battlefield. |
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And the storm let the calm by... |
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And he took again what him was (made) |
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And each bit of their entrails |
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Were spread along the southern lands. |
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Being condemned to be conquered |
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And annihilated. |
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By the great fighter sons |
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Who should show for ever more |
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The price of playing with their gods. |