The Seventh Cycle.
The clouds gather,
The shadows rise,
...
O' wind of the misty mountains blow,
with songs of bronze and tales of gold,
over green fields and forests old,
whisper in my ear, the story so.
...
Let not, the songs sing
A false set, of a mistaken spring
Let them not behold,
A cloven lie, cleverly told
...
Dread always, the forsaken just,
Ware always their blackened heart,
ware him, he who walks this road.
And follows it down it's final path.
...