By the river a mound, it is by the cold flow,
It stooped woefully its tired shoulders.
Who will share your ashen-clad rest, who will show
How to cure your grief strange to beholders?
Waves splash resoundingly ‘gainst the tarred boards,
And the ushkui-ships pass into the thick fog.
Where are you now, my true friends? By whose coasts
You will get such barrows as your epilogue?
A falcon in the wild there is no more,
There’s no ploughman outdoor,
And in a meadow there’s no mower,
There is no young man of valour…
Who did dwell in the earth-house under the soil
With his blood-stained battle axe at the bedside?
Never wept with bitter tears in worldly turmoil,
But avenged by the ebullient blood?
Who did fight his battle on this forest coast?
Who did find here his ultimate fortune?
And for whom the snowstorm cries as a ghost
With the widow-like grief, as under torture?
Waves splash resoundingly ‘gainst the tarred boards,
And the ushkui-ships pass into the thick fog.
Where are you now, my true friends? By whose coasts
You will get such barrows as your epilogue?
By the river a mound as a measure of grief –
It’s the grief dwelling in Russian souls.
It is like the river’s lot – without relief
Gaze into the mirror of skies with no paroles.
In empyrean spaces of gray-haired clouds,
Which turn bloody-crimson at even-fall,
Dying funeral pyres illume skyey shrouds
Raising the mounds in the heaven hall!
Waves splash resoundingly ‘gainst the tarred boards,
And the ushkui-ships pass into the thick fog.
Where are you now, my true friends? By whose coasts
You will get such barrows as your epilogue?
supported by 8 fans who also own “A Barrow Over The River”
The album that started it all. An amazing taste of the mythological beast that emerged from the smoke and gave us unforgettable hymns to worship.
Let The Devil's Blood boil within you. Grimmrobe