Approaching from afar a storm
Gathering the blackest of all skies
Yet it seems as if the storm was alive
Could it be that Hell was unleashed from beneath?

The legend was told for centuries
An army that wore the face of Hell itself
Bronze shields and iron will
Encircles the flesh of war demons

Clearly seen now they were
The conquerors of the ninth century

All silence and peace vanish
As they invade the Carpathians
Where Attila once reigned and fell
Now Arpad rides as Emperor
Into the fatherland

Solo: Istvan

What must come is now here
Mercy to none to conquer is to kill
The earth must be fed, divine victory
Harrowing grief, for every one of us
A hundred more must die

By campfires we toast to our martyrs
Over your grave may the great river flow
You are the saint of the damned
And king of our hearts

Solo: Istvan

We await the storm

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