Against (the) autumnal moon.

The cowering pack awaits the Triumph,

Of Winter transfixed by awe.

The hammer of cold has smashed into pieces

The hordes of the living Loki

The flames are amuck, the body is empty.

The grip of Berserk is firm.



The raven spreads its runic wings

Against (the) autumnal moon.

The cowering pack awaits the Triumph,

Of Winter transfixed by awe.



Your scream freezes on your lips,

Your blood is crunchy on your teeth.

Dragon of war spits death.

Viking beholds

The battle of the Gods, and lifts his sword.