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.