The day will come when this shadow dissolves-

This corpse shall return to his grave-

Dragging behind him a blade caked in blood-

And the corpses of men he has made-

No requiem shall be heard 'cross the skyline-

No doves shall see flight for his deeds-

Only those that before him fell into the Black-

They alone shall be there to him greet-

Upon a pyre, the Gods will set flame to his Sorrow-

And bring an end to his wretched charade-

No remnant shall be of this wraith's sad existence,

But the Corpses of men he has made-

His armor, now laden with scars, nicks, and dents-

His mail in holes where their arrows hit true-

His skeletal features unblinking, as he cut down his foes-

Cleaving men clean in two-

Nevermore shall it's war cry be heard, now he rots-

He decays into dust, bone, and dirt, now enslaved-

Those wretches, he reaps, now he drags them to Helheim-

In the corpses of men he has made.