(©Old Monk's Saga 1999)

Intro ("…the fallible pilgrims")

Restless gleams in boundless distance turn pale.
Mystery of interlaced spirits'll be unraveled on the eve of gale.

Glimmer, as before dawn, the sombre procession is wrapped up in.
Iridescent streams out of very core're involving us in croon, So sorrowful, so dim.

Solitude in bosom of summoned pilgrims Becomes our Majesty.
Only being face to face with stainless fata-morganas
We feel our nonentity and Supremacy.

Dreary torpidity has beaten so fervently now,
as wicked hearts after triumph exultation.
The Bulwark of Eternity's gaunt outlines' heaving above,
led by Wisdom of Ancestors by the path of Comprehension.

Part 1: "The Immortalized Depth"

Among fairy-tale odour of slumbering forests,
Cool sources' descending from unapproachable mountain spires.
In a cradle of ancient woods,
where crowns of silence hide heaven pearls out of sight,
called Oracle, the imperishable infant of Mother Time lies.
Powerful Augurs and obeyed sivillas reign there,
Foreseeing future by magic and witchcraft.
Their unity is immortal as Reason - they are undominated over Sin.
Being orthodox, they are worshiped as deities.
Wizards bury in oblivion foes and defaulters,
but with faith in resurrection they inter warriors,
feel in battles against the Evil One.
For only chosen ones the road is paved towards there places,
baptize by The Beginning and End of the whole existed.
(We are blind children, who' recovering their sight within the temple.)

Part 2: "Exhaustion"

…just ruins. Angels lie on a dry splitted ground…dead.
There is only a smell of astounded skies around, it's spreading and filling
nature with a Requiem of Woe.
Twilight…dim twinkle, devastation.
Withered fellage…naked trees. Branches lie without any movement.
Light is slowly fading away. Putrefaction.
Remoted, behind the hills of the valley, I lie beneath coming Death.
My Renascence is lost. Noiseless discolouring.
The only disconsolate wind is roaming quite close by Precipitation.
Wrath of strained nerves within rapturous moderation is subsiding.
Remembrance is outshone by a moribund shroud.
Being at Death's thresholds, my crest-fallen eyed are sinking among
crowns and through the crevices drowsy, glacial visions are drooping over.
I'm floating downstream alongside with the sound of Dirge.
Time is elapsed…Aggrandization.
Someone's hands are allaying me and cuddling.
Here, the headwaters were rooted.
'Sepulchral voice calls beyond.
I'm abandoning Abyss to perpetual Cosmos…
Take my hands and lead towards Valhalla
Let the body sleep under patronage of night.
Rest in calm and esteem of the tender river
and die away my sparkled self-sacrificed sight.
Here, amidst the antecedents of mankind, that erase the border
Silence is purifying with peace and soothe.
I prostrate myself, being coronated with' Crescent.
A plunge in Profundity of the Truth.
Moon' wane…dying whiff…Relief.
Without tormented famine I'm falling asleep evermore.

Part 3: "Apocalipsis (when shadows make the halo over centuries)"

…and then there happened a great battle at the very dawn, when the valley of expired volcanos and burnt grass was covered with hidden thrill under settled ominous stillness. The first sounds of horns wafted from the north and soon real tumult of tools and tools filled the area with its fiery air.
As sinister dark clouds the hordes of enemies appeared on horizon and the flocks of starveling wolves invaded the land; cold legions marched by mutilated ground. Their drums were stunning the prayers for mercy, but they were useless to overpower the rows of brave warriors, who resisted the uninvited masses. The defenders had descended from mountains as highlanders, as invisible satyrs they had come out of deep woods and stepped forth against the fiends.
In the middle of bright and flourished summer there suddenly came winter. The sky was overcast and drawn a shroud of grey wings of death.
With the very stroke of thunder and lightning the host stood immovably in from of each other on the immense field…the horsemen resembled cliffs. Suddenly a war-call of trumpets cut up silence and the rocks rushed, approaching with sharp surfaces closer and closer.
Swords and axes arose as banners alongside with a violent hurricane.
Two forces, two religions…
The time of new Procreation…and only blood on edges then…

Part 4: "Atheist or Worship?"

Warrior: Who are you there,-
In darkness? In light?
A marshal? A seducer?
God or Fallen Seraph of Pandemonium?
Am I ready for the last light?
Surmounting pain.
Will Unknowness be my right?
Kindling inner flame.

In quest of Equilibrium I went through ages
And paradise gates were in front of me.
But hatred and rage enchained my strength.
Visions from Bible arose on my everlasting pages
But did I fell remorse, wolfing the lambs of grace?

Ardent passion,-
Seeds of 'patrimonial curse.
The Horns of Creation -
Am I doomed to wander across desolated epochs?
Profanity or a Paragon of Virtue?
An Accuser? An Executor?
Who are you, there
between Alfa and Omega?
Elicited phantoms? Brethren?
Venom or Unction?
Momentum or Vice?
Will my Pride survive?
Depravity and Victory or Humility and Escape?
In the Sun or in Pyre?
Where are the answers for my Empire?

Augur: You are in a womb of your Fatherland,
and among its faces you'll find your aboriginal god.
You are the folk, you are its history -
follow the vestiges of blossom and gore,
and the Chronicles of the Past will be your touches and keys
for all enigmas, - Memory is the Law.

Part 5: "The Portal in Infinity (where we are possessed by grandeur)"

Dellsong is starlit night,
Dellsong is my soul' flora.
Dellsong in depths and in height.
Dellsong is an ascension of aurora.

Winter fierceness, summer heat.
Autumn dejection, spring beat…
And my skin is bark
And my desires is music of pinnacles' harp.

A balm for my dried meadows,
Efflorescence for emaciated eyes.
Will-o-the-wisp amidst dark shadows,
Dellsong above the sky as eagle flies.

Endless ocean lies ahead
and the woody galley drifts so swiftly.
Far away from gallows toward the land,
The promised One, slept so deeply.

Scud are floating through my fingers -
Isn't it a Rood in the name of Revelation?
Dellsong quenches hunger of the fatal kingdoms,
chanted in covenants of destiny's peregrination.
…this light is a Portal…
…dellsong is immortal…