In the secret woods, no human eye has ever beheld.
Through the sacred oaks, the white owl flies
Gallops, a black horse whose long mane must never be shorn
And flows a clear brook where in its slumber, the great sword lies
In the trickling fingers of the water are whispers
The echoes of weeping women
The sounds of the dying and their final cries.
Once a weapon of conquest.
......
In the secret woods, no human eye has ever beheld.
Through the sacred oaks, the white owl flies
Gallops, a black horse whose long mane must never be shorn
And flows a clear brook where in its slumber, the great sword lies
In the trickling fingers of the water are whispers
The echoes of weeping women
The sounds of the dying and their final cries.
Once a weapon of conquest.
......