In the whirls of time,

turning their eyes

toward the shadowy monumental

symbols of the past,

following the lines up to the places,

where power and mystery reign

some people raised many stones to the sun

in their imposing silence.

A warm wind is blowing in my face

melting the ice of death.

Burnt alive victims around the cromlech

in honour of my immortality.

Crucified on The Oak.

My blood is trickling down it

no light in this church made of trees

some men in white are chanting their song

to the altar of Cernunnos.

Crucified on The Oak.

Oh you, God of Moon,

sanctify this magis ritual.

In my heart theres the power of glory,

in my eyes the shine of the sword.

Oh you, God of Death, rescue me from this fear,

I will be your messenger,

rescue me from this light.

Oh Mother Darkness, receive the son of cruelty and wisdom.

Crucified on The Oak, in honour of Esus.

The earth is imbued with the blood of my Gods enemies

and from flames a battle-cry is madly risen.

Far away the death-song is going on with the crossing of the swords.

The fog is hiding our temples made of stones

and the Gods are silently waiting for the event.

The bloody encounter between our Pagan Devotion and the only god.

Ruins around The Oak.

Corpses in oblivion.

Sealed up by the light of reason.

Oh, cursed mortals, which is the right way?