Little Dead Bertha Raven
You give the moon their icy light
Ancient stone of forgotten graves
Nothing not his eternal rest
Not wind not cry of tombed birds
Only raven is old as our world
On the black and destroying cross
Sometimes remember his glorious fest
When see the heap of rotten bones
He tell the story on this braves
Their glory castles the merge with the earth
Who live in the fight in dismal the fear
And go on to the battle for glory or death
Soul of dismay is lost revenge
And names of peoples on the tombed stones
The cry’s and silence in the darkness of the night
In the claws of animals his rotten bones