The Fog (...And Grief Still Moans) — KHORS

Over the high hills the wind carries The voice of the old man-magus, herald of the death His news are echoing in the distance, Breaking the rest of the Earth

Proud birds sing their song To heroes of the fights and to defeated To their pure souls and to their unbending will

Deep waters of the river fly Hide bodies of the fallen Taking souls and healing wounds

In the fog of cold gloom Grief's moaning is heard The moaning of the destroyed destinies And the spell of the old man.