Khors In The Depths Of The Black Hills
The gods take away the lives of warriors
Choosing the very best ones
Families are crying for the dead
Farewelling their souls
The haze is covering the tops of the hills
The ravens are flying over them
Cold wind blowing away
Ashes of burial flame
Old wolf at the edge of the wood
Looks with his tired old eyes
At the celebration of glory
And the greatness of death