The bee-filing blizzard by the Herculean defile
over ice-crested border ridge in original power
From the shoulder blade of the mountain ridge is heard the bell
The plaintive notes in starving region
With the mourning wagons of hunger as dragging yokes
Emaciated, half-eyed, with bellies bursting
Settlers red wrapped in winter's dock
Where the storm happens Wrecks and ruins remain
Weaved is the snowfall that provides a dull illumination
The cold proclaims its right to rule
Now the food has sinat, everything feels like a shiver of fever
It gnaws at the soul of the mountain village's family
The rhythm of life fades for insatiable need
One kingdom, för kött and bread
From the raven's nest can be heard the man's laughter
Slowly the polar night is approaching
And mountain avalanches are spawned at the summits
A thundering army in furious f ¤rd
The downfall of the village, and the avalanche is the sacrificial priest himself
And the drifter's prison its altar hearth
Frozen enthroned the domners
Into grievous silence they fall asleep < br/>

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