11 acessos
Our swords, pikes, and axes
As if they had sharper edges
Victory is close - at hand
Hymns are sung in the land
Ends this horrid dream of enemies
And begins their eternal sleep
Perhaps when circle reachers its end
Where something is born, other's dead
Rival's plunder'll be no more
From blood our bliss is born
That all without hesitating
Must be duly celebrated