Eplagardh

Lyrics

Strange Days

Where roads turn sharp and cold
And rivers run like wolf-fangs, thundering, unseen
Towards the somber shores of Valhalla, dark and very old
There stands a gatekeeper, neat robed in blue-black sheen
While slaves are drifting restless by, like feathered starlings lean
From every one the words are cast in sounds of tightening bows
-“Now give us crackled pork instead of meager mistletoes
Our time has come to overthrow our everlasting woes
Anoint us, fallen angels here, where mead and honey flows
Which Lady Idun gathered where the orchard apples grows
While popes sat crowned in Rome upon their marbled, ornate thrones
With gold and ruby, emeralds, the wealth of precious stones
Their sacks of curses, stuffed with fears, and sometimes overgrown
With banishment, heretic fire, dust and smoldered bones"

-"This is our need, our every day's demand in all our choirs
When all our food’s a stinking, wind-worn hide from Valhall's desolated shires
And all we drink is marsh green water drawn from murky, spewed out mires
Where only Giants of the Dovre mountains dwell
And hunger days deprease our need in every yell
Where castle, palace, gleam and glare from golden roofs compel
Our eyes to watch and kneel while hunger burns our guts like hell”

-“I'd say, let's gather strength to fight the Valhall's foreign rule
And till the soil, build homes anew, refuse to be their meekened tool
But shall we talk with Fenris Graywolf and the Serpent of the Midgard Sea
Or await the will of future generations yet to be
Where all are taking part in working days and market feasts alike
For every crawling, walking, stumbling man, who either fends or strikes
And sows in kelp burnt ash from last year’s harvest's sweat and fruitful plight
Where lots of grain was stolen, heavy wagon loads in endless flight
Bereaved a hundred times by Thor and Odin’s hirelings of might
And sent to Valhalla's cook, well fed, obecian strut behind the wall
Who never feeds us slaves a single crumb in winter, spring, summertime or fall”

-"This is our need, our every day's demand in all our choirs
When all our food’s a stinking, wind-worn hide from Valhall's desolated shires
And all we drink is marsh green water drawn from murky, spewed out mires
Ah - Ah - Ah
Where only Giants of the Dovre mountains dwell
And hunger days do state our need in every yell
Where castle, palace, gleam and glare from golden roofs compel
Our eyes to watch and kneel, while hunger burns our guts like hell”

-“I'd say, let's gather strength to fight the Valhall's foreign rule
And till the soil, build homes anew, refuse to be their meekened tool
But shall we talk with Fenris Graywolf and the Serpent of the Midgard Sea
Ah - Ah - Ah
Or await the will of future generations yet to be
Where all are taking part in working days and market feasts alike
For every crawling, walking, stumbling man, who either fends or strikes
And sows in kelp burnt ash from last year’s harvest's sweat and fruitful plight
Where lots of grain was stolen, heavy wagon loads in endless flight
Bereaved a hundred times by Thor and Odin’s hirelings of might
And sent to Valhall's cook, well fed, obecian strut behind the wall
Who never feeds us slaves a single crumb in winter, spring, summertime or fall”

-“And all of Valhall's greedy gods, and sons of crooked men
Shall stand astonished, watching that our trusted will again
Makes way for rightousness to humble slaves and fierce eyed, fighting men
For rightful claims and heritage of lands
Where generations carved with toil and wrinkled hands
Up every town and valley where free craftsmen came to stand
Beneath the sky’s high throne we shaped and planned
Where we then lived as freed from hunger years
Which carried us through times of bondage, doubts and fears
Where every man is slave and lord alike, and act like peers
The maker and the master of his own sweet, blissful well
Creating poverty or fortune where his silver days will fail or rush to swell
While thieves still claw at every hoarding cart
With violence and fury tearing all diplomacy and peace apart
And crown with lawless law the wrongs that rule the darkened heart”

-“We’ve thought of marching to the barns of food which stand
Beside the bishop's mansion in this fruitful, worked out land
Where two grim mills grind all our wheat from out our very hands
And steal with ease the rye from last years autumn's plenty yield
Which Lady Bishop of the Diocese claimed free for contracts sealed
when we were renting all our turnips-, bean- and cauliflower-fields
And you will watch sharp pitchforks raised like spires
When rulers feast and dance by wild boar's roasting fires
Among the princes' recklessness, obecian as their size is
'Till sermons soften, fall, and freedom once again for us arises”

-“And all of Valhall's greedy gods, and sons of crooked men
Shall stand astonished, watching that our trusted will again
Makes way for rightousness to humble slaves and fierce eyed, fighting men
For rightful claims and heritage of lands
Where generations carved with toil and wrinkled hands
Up every town and valley where free craftsmen came to stand
Beneath the sky’s high throne we shaped and planned
Where we then lived as freed from hunger years
Which carried us through times of bondage, doubts and fears
Where every man is slave and lord alike, and act like peers
The maker and the master of his own sweet, blissful well
Creating grief or fortune where his silver days will fail or rush to swell
Where every man is slave and lord alike, and act like peers
The maker and the master of his own sweet, blissful well"