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The alley of hanged kings,
Pierced by the swords of the plague.
The wind is filled with cries,
Of the dying women.

A temple of souls locked away,
In a spectral mirror,
Caries the reflection of a view,
Of the dead children.

The time, when the deed is failed.
The time, when the ashes cover all.
The light, devoured by the black spirits
The light, in the bone crests of the outgoing…

The hand of the dead dragon
In the plague wind of autumn.
In the swords of black spirits,
On the banners of countless hordes…

They are approaching…

The heroes’ last outpost
The legends lied to them.
For light inevitably dies out
And darkness never fades.

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