Cold is the air – still are the trees –
the clouds are streaked with red;
hushed are the birds as dusk descends
and here you lay your head.

A whirling bird above is shrieking –
the bird of destiny;
of midnight born, with plume as black –
unearthly thing to see.

A pawn you were in unseen quarrels
of vying deities;
this bird tells of what has been spoken –
the voice of their decrees.

Your shield is shattered – in your side
a spear has slaked its thirst;
though life is slipping rest is here
now fate has done its worst.

These rivers were your cradle sought –
this chosen land your bride;
a rightful heir had come but you
were blinded by your pride.

Like bulls whose horns are locked in battle
you fought with armour crashing;
the plains resounded with the echo
of armies blindly clashing.

These fields were red, were filled with cries –
the rivers ran with blood;
this bird descended, soon you fell,
with dull and sickening thud.

O bird of destiny – oft seen
when skies are rumbling;
on tombstones perched in weather foul
and rooftops crumbling.

It knows no song of harmony
to charm the glades and dells;
its shrieking is the melody
that destiny foretells.

The final sleep is creeping near,
the scene is growing dim;
its noise a dull and distant blur –
your only passing hymn.

You see a dank enfolding fog –
hear chains that dimly clink;
a murky river to be crossed,
forgetfulness to drink.

Cold are your hands, still are your eyes,
vanished is your voice;
your bride is lost – the fitful gods
have made their final choice.