On a cold misty October morning
In the year of the lord 1462
The horses appeared on the hills of Brasov
The process of damnation had begun

He killed by crushing them under the wheels of barrows
Others were undressed and skinned alive
To their very bowels and others still were
Impaled upon the wooden poles

The cold wind of death follow in his way
Deme quaden thyrane

Some of them were run through with stakes
That impaled their heads, breasts, behind
Until the pole was driven through the mouth
To ellude the lack of any cruelty, he drew stakes through
The breast of mothers and then went by impaling their infants
Upon these

The cold wind of death follows in his way
Deme quaden thyrane

The cold wind of death follows in his way
Deme quaden thyrane
So many have to die by the horrible ways of torturing them
With such instruments that can only be invented
By the most nefarious cruelty-possessed
By the uttermost dreadful tyrant that ever existed