[III. At The Gates Of Winter]

Still I bear the flowers of pain
Still I bear the flowers
The flowers of solitude

And on the mountain’s side
Grim-looking gate lies
Staring towards the north
Waiting in solitude

Barring the way inside
The giant doors of stone
Not built for mortal men
Not made for us to pass

Vile trick of ornery Gods?
Rewards and riches
Right here within our reach
Not within our grasp!

I walk with my head down
Wind blows right through my waning heart
Weightless like a bird in my arms
She looks into the bottom of my soul
Grave tidings from the northside
Grave is the tone of this night
Weightsomе the dark around us
The weight of timе upon us

No one will sing tonight
No one will leave the pyre
Dreaming of golden wolf
Dreading the winter’s might

Vile trick of ornery Gods?
Rewards and riches
Right here within our reach
Not within our grasp!

Not within our grasp!