Then years pass with armor and sword;
The giant for king and country;
From battlefield to battlefield on a warrior's journey,
Leaving cities and farms In fire.
He lives in defiance, among hopes and memories,
But as the years pass and they slowly fade away,
Becomes a fighter all he can.
He stands with men on a misty hill
When the sun breaks into day.
It is no longer against the enemy they fought,
Gone are hatred and grudge.
But war-weary men draw their swords again,
When on the hill against them stands the enemy,
And the horns call to battle.
They are ragged, weary, where they ride
With swords blackened with blood;
Cracked armor from past battles
Over misty, marshy bog .
They fight against evil, against the army of darkness;
Five years they have worn their king's clothes;
But what they have lost is faith.
Relief is as far as I them,
For this is the last battle;
If they win they can then return home,
To happy quiet life.
Icy swords flash, In axes and shields
When they ride the last battle In violence,
Without mercy, without grid.
Blood spurts when sword meets flesh;
Men fall with wounds.
The field is filled with torment and death
Under the sun of dawning spring.
On the plains the blood runs in floods,
And the smell of blood rises from the corpses yonder
Around those who still stand.
He fights in savagery and fights as possessed;
It glitters In bloody metal.
There is silence from the heart that war has taken,
And his thought is empty and cold.
Around him the sound of blows roars;< br/>It sounds in swords under the light of day,
That itself dies at sunset.