Vault of beeches in autumn,
The thunder, the loneliness and the great silence ...


Golden sparkles and deep valleys,
The creek, the sadness and the howling of the decadent Sun ...


Wound dries, cold winter... and the great silence...
The beechwoods that possess the atmosphere,
The man, the death and the howling of the Decadent sun ...


Tragedies above the smokewaters,
Beyond the red fields of pain...

We don't fear the cold scythe of time...
Because the wounds are now black and deep...


Our cold heart burns
Children of the beechtree...
At !@^#u's coronation...


Our clear voice sounds
Sounds like a hymn to Bathory...

That our cold heart suffers...