The Rain - Brymir

As the martyrs tremble

With fears of the torment awaiting

Their stakes are looming

Turning pride to remorse,

But the choice Is made

Their righteous piety fading

For their souls shall burn at dawn

Will their God be waiting?

Like the sun of death:

Demise!

About to rise

No phoenix rising…

«Black fire consumes us

Enslaves us to unbearable pain

Can’t anyone end me and send my soul away?»

In the howls and whispers of the dying

You hear me scream:

«Grant me the gift of death»

No phoenix rising!