Where the Sloes Mature - Thalarion

A narrow path full of thorns

Carefully you lift your legs tired

So as not to be wounded

Green sky above your pensive head

It seems that perhaps it will rain

The sun vanished long ago

The end is not yet in sight

And you stray over and over again

Diamond swords in the crowns of trees

Glittering with their magnificent blades

They are falling down to your feet

A path covered with poisoned fruit

They are sour like all your life

This way could be perilous

Where the sloes mature

A sad bequest awaits you

Where the sour sloes mature

Your will is dying in you

Contours of hills in the distance

You are waving to them with a scarf

You have trod on the bad luck

A warm fluid will feed the ground

It will be drinking, so dry and thirsty

A potion that can donate a life

Where the sloes mature

A sad bequest awaits you

Where the sour sloes mature

Your will is dying in you

Just a red stream of your blood

Flows into the deepness of the chasm

Just a red stream of your blood

Feeds the dry and thirsty ground

Where the sloes mature

A sad bequest awaits you

Where the sour sloes mature

Your will is dying in you