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Antique Lyrics of Arda

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Walküre:
Atop a bridge of misery, with the finest friend (I)


Through forsaken fields I voyaged, meandering amidst grief, swift and sure as the bolt wounding the night, ready to journey unto the furthest end,
Lone I am not, this time, being beside me the finest friend, willing to aid my quest and the wrong to mend,
The hazardous path hath led us thither, atop a bridge of misery, one-time soil of glory, bewitched into sorrowful gaol, apt for the ghoul and the wraith,
Behold! The night-mare of the tale hath come forth, clothed with raging tempest, harbinger of horrible death, in voluble guise which might kill one's faith.

Now shalt thou deal with me and a servant of lit thrones, for doomed thou art to part from thy fell flesh, unless thou criest defeat for fear, lest thou suffer a fouler sneer.

Walküre:
Atop a bridge of misery, with the finest friend (II)


Through forsaken fields I voyaged, swift and sure as the bolt wounding the night,
Verily, drawn to the quest I was by the captive's plight,
I harbour in me terror and dread, but also the adamant will to journey unto the furthest end,
Lone I am not, this time, being beside me the finest friend, willing to die justly and the wrong to mend,
Thither we have gone, at last, atop a bridge of misery,
One-time glorious soil, twisted into a gaol of ghouls craving one's injury,
The night-mare hath come forth, clothed with dreary tempest, harbinger of horrible death,
Eyes in the dark or bane of the ether, fashioned in voluble guise that taketh the breath,
Now shalt thou deal with me and a servant of lit thrones, our foremost faith,
Cry thy defeat and forswear thy grievous rule, lest thou be soon to suffer a fouler sneer as the least wraith!

Walküre:
Atop a bridge of misery, with the finest friend (III)



Swift and sure as the bolt wounding the night,
I voyaged through fields and forsaken wastes, for drawn to the quest I was by a terrible plight,
The pale Moon I saw not, not clearly as of hope the beacon,
Being my mind clouded by sheer terror of loss, I reckon,
Far and broad my fate hath led me to roam,
It may be that naught of good is to come from the deed, vanishing our fortunes as feeble foam,
Long have I trodden the untrodden path to what resembled ruinous doom,
Within these shires of grief, cold shelter for the banished, which thitherto had dwelt in precarious stillness, prior to the coming of utter gloom,
In my heart there is ample space for valour, whatever the hazard is to demand, ready to head to the furthest end,
Lone I am not, this time, aiding me the finest friend, willing to strive and the wrong to mend.

We have gone thither, at last, atop a bridge of misery,
Stain on one-time ramparts of glory, twisted into a mansion of phantoms craving one's injury,
Furious battle against gruesome guardians, at such dreadful height,
Ill-boding the future, for we were not given chance of retreat nor flight,
Behold! The foe hath finally appeared, clothed with dreary tempest, harbinger of horrible death,
Ancient threat, visage of foul demise and fashion that taketh the breath,
Thou, devil, now shalt thou deal with me and a servant of lit thrones, our foremost faith,
Vain are thy tricks, whether thou art to haunt woods, patrol the ether or wander as impious wraith,
Choke and cry thy miserable defeat, lest thou be soon to suffer the sneer of thy fell lord, as storms that afar rumble,
Thy lordship is gone, eventually, conceded to me, and I shall sing the Evil being won, waning the magic of the stronghold and making my song the stone crumble.

Walküre:
Say what you need say


Say what you need say,
Swear the oath, and be it words which you speak may,
Let yourself be conquered by the good cause,
Keep faith firm and make it grow as the finest rose.

Fate shall summon the worst to come,
Many woes for the decent, more than some,
Turmoil, pervasive and fostering abroad, across the whole region,
We are to know the outcome of the clash, before those white bastions that are to resist the black legion.

Walküre:
Tolling afar, the disaster of the Evil


May you hear it? It is the solemn end of the strife, long suffering and varied in guise,
It is tolling afar, the sound of defeat, which is not ignored by the wise,
Wise ears that grasp, the utter disaster of the Evil, doomed to fade,
May we honour the humble protagonist of the tale, who ever-defiant he rested and willing our sake to aid.

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