Let me tell you this tale of lords Who came from remote lands To steal the sacred lance To the ones born by frost. They were waiting for the nightfall When wolves slept, the stick of sway Was snatched from its room But the winter saw what they had done. And the wind blew towars the shining wisdom well Where the supreme fighter was keeping watch... So they were destined to die at dawn When the early rising horse touched the sky And it lighted up their haunt. Then he went hunting for the midnight thieves, Guided by his ravens, throughout the nine worlds, Attracted by the smell of fear just like worms. And a dull caw was the encounter sign Between the hunter and his prey. The morning clouds began to cry, And his anger became unstoppable, The fighter rushed the intruders group, And a lightning crossed the tears. Thousands of bits of flesh and blood Remained on the battlefield. And the storm let the calm by... And he took again what him was (made) And each bit of their entrails Were spread along the southern lands. Being condemned to be conquered And annihilated. By the great fighter sons Who should show for ever more The price of playing with their gods.