The ancient in the hill,
He sings rhymes of terror.
Mounted in his horse,
He guided the convoy.
Desperate shouts echoed among mounts
And the caravan went straight ahead
To the Valley of Souls it headed,
And the ancient sang his rhymes.
The cavalry marched
And up-stream the frozen wind
Headed the caravan of souls.
In each wagon of the convoy
Don't saw it any life,
Only the empty souls
Of that they hadn't believed in the Judgment Day.
In each pit stop there was an agglomeration of more souls
Attracted by lullaby of the old man,
That prophesied in every single verse
The destiny of them all.
The ancient mounted in his horse
Guided the caravan until your final stop
Vomiting the plague,
And fulfilling his sad destiny.
