The decay of dead, stinking bodies.
Retrieving the souls of fallen warriors,
Chasing them through the thirteenth moon of harsh nights.
Wotan carried on Sleipnir,
Ahead of the storm through the cold Midwinter night.
The army of the dead full of proud warriors,
Hunting through the night.
The steel of the sword has caught them,
Ice cold in the dark night.
Praise be to Wotan's wild hunt .
On Midgard rests the white splendor.
Oh, honorable dead,
Blinded and hated by the
"mercy" of the church.
Enthroned on Hlidskjalf,
He looks at the shameful pack of Midgard,
Which praise the "mercy" of the church.
Oh, deluded people!
But we rush over Bifröst, into Asgard
And will be proud warriors...
... and meet our fathers in Valhalla.

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