Lastly the shadow in the eye
Spoken by the sick one
His glances speak

Dream-colored
Dead language
No one belongs to us!

The shadows encircle the sick one
Sweat-soaked his forehead shines
Reflecting ancient beings

We buy up cities!
Conquer entire streets
Victors from ****** battles

Shadows lie in the way
Thus the sick one stumbles
Above him a black sky

We have won!
War of the glass swords
Whisper us one more wish...

But the sick one sleeps
For the next thousand years
A red, true sleep