At The Sound Of The Mid-Winterhorn Testo

And the oaks breathe mysterious mur-
mursof the horn that sounds its sigh
In the moons face beneath the ocre eye
like a crescent sword in hour of fight
And baring unto hell each noble head
stood in the circle where
none else might tread
The thick air consumed the night
Ravens pride on battlesounds they fed
In a thousand shimmering nighttime dreams
druids of old impale me
I gaze into a fog pregnant with
seeds of decay and die amongst flesh and bark
As I fell eternally
Never touching the freesing soil
Like an autumn leaf caught in a cobweb dew
Lost am I until
my newfound wings I spread
Death is at hand and perish will all but a few