There was a sacred wood which since an old age
Has never been profaned
And surrounded with its intertwined branches
A tenebrous air and a cold shadows
Impenetrable for the sun.

This wood wasn’t inhabited by pans, sylvans or nymphs
But by sanctuaries of pagan gods with barbaric cults :
Altars stand on sinister barrows
All trees are purified by human blood.

A tenebrous air and a cold shadows
Impenetrable for the sun.

If we believe the ancient times, celestial being admirer
Birds fear to perch on branches of this wood
And the wild beast to lie down in its dens.
Wind doesn’t fall on its trees
Nor the thunderbolts that shoot out from dark clouds

These trees, that don’t offer their foliage to any breeze, inspire a particular horror.
An abundant water falls from black sources
And sad formless god statues stand, without art, on cut trunks.
Even the mould and the paleness that appear on these rotten trees strike the observer with amazement.

Birds fear to perch on branches of this wood
And the wild beast to lie down in its dens.
Wind doesn’t fall on its trees
Nor the thunderbolts that shoot out from dark clouds

This wood wasn’t inhabited by pans, sylvans or nymphs
But by sanctuaries of pagan gods with barbaric cults :
Altars stand on sinister barrows
All trees are purified by human blood.

Peoples don’t approach this place to practice their cult : they has given up it to gods.
When Phebus is in the middle of the sky,
Or during a dark night,
The priest himself dreads its access and fears to surprise the Lord of this realm.
This forest stayed, very deep, in the middle of bare mounts.

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