Brooding Land
Howl oh bitter wind do scream
Across the black water moor
Slip thy silvered mist in silence
Over the fallen heroes and fools
And hammer thy swords into tools
Take down the torn tattered tents
Still standing under Culans Tor
Let fate take her toll I do deem
Leave the swords to rust away
Into the quickly distancing past fair
Sing of those gone as warriors true
That is all they will be remembered for
One small gift for crossing fates door
They did, as warriors are ever fate to do
Now they journey on as shades dare
Free of that sad and mortal day