Across the tortuous pathway by the heathlands Drenched with the tears of a mourning December sky A peasant was driving his cart to Camors near the plan of Treauray a lamentable figure
Seeped in his eyes…
Hobbling, stumbling, crawling, with the help of a rotten stick An aged hunched crone was travelling Awful face, soulless eyes, Cheeks hollow like an open grave in a christian charity impulse he drove her
Pestilence rides, dressed in rags…
The horse was rushing as if the devil's whip was hitting his rump Old woman was sitting in the back of the cart hemmed a noxious aura of sickness and death Atmosphere corrupted with an unbearable pathogenic stench
The bell tower of Camors Appeared through the crying clouds
"Here I stop ! I take charge of destroying this land
When my task is accomplished graves will be so numerous, There won't be any room left to bury corpses. It's the Plague, peasant, that you brought to Camors !"
So many cadavers, no gravedigger was left alive to bury them all Megalith, Cromlech, rocks of the castle of Konomor Mineral substances last longer than flesh
Life is only a desperate rush to the grave The great finale is Death, pestilence and oblivion
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust… Ashes to ashes, dust to dust…
Conclusion of this tale is no prayer, no bible, no crucified fool Will carry your soul to an everlasting paradise where daily life is a survival, men erect weakness in shapes of a cross In a cage of granite and wood, all flesh is destined to rot
Krœz Er Vossen… Krœz Er Vossen…Teksty umieszczone na naszej stronie są własnością wytwórni, wykonawców, osób mających do nich prawa.
