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The Oak
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Opera Ix
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1
In the whirls of time,
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turning their eyes
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toward the shadowy monumental
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symbols of the past,
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following the lines up to the places,
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where power and mystery reign
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some people raised many stones to the sun
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in their imposing silence.
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A warm wind is blowing in my face
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melting the ice of death.
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Burnt alive victims around the cromlecâ"š¬â"ž¢h
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in honour of my immortality.
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Crucified on The Oak.
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My blood is trickling down it
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no light in this church made of trees
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some men in white are chanting their song
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to the altar of Cernunnos.
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Crucified on The Oak.
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Oh you, God of Moon,
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sanctify this magis ritual.
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In my heart thereâ"š¬â"ž¢s the power of glory,
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in my eyes the shine of the sword.
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Oh you, God of Death, rescue me from this fear,
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I will be your messenger,
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rescue me from this light.
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Oh Mother Darkness, receive the son of cruelty and wisdom.
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Crucified on The Oak, in honour of Esus.
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The earth is imbued with the blood of my Godâ"š¬â"ž¢s enemies
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and from flames a battle-cry is madly risen.
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Far away the death-song is going on with the crossing of the swords.
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The fog is hiding our temples made of stones
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and the Gods are silently waiting for the event.
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The bloody encounter between our Pagan Devotion and the only god.
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Ruins around The Oak.
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Corpses in oblivion.
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Sealed up by the light of reason.
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Oh, cursed mortals, which is the right way?
Opera IX - Fronds of the Ancient Walnut
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