on the field of vigrid a cold night
a thick fog rests
feels like a heavenly suffocation
there I stand in the heart of the fog

a late october fullmoon night
lonely on a pagan field
in the spirit of vigrid
in the fog of my fate

I feel a cold breeze drifting lightly by
it touches me, takes me far away
I float through the air lonely as a raven
while the spirit of vigrid slowly lets me die

take me to nowhere
so that I can die
and let the spirit of vigrid
still hunt for the souls of the strong men

strengthen the spirit of vigrid
so that it can be worshipped
and make a lesser might disappear


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