The Oak - Opera IX

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 cromlec’h

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 there’s 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.