Kroez Er Vossen

Across the tortuous pathway by the heathlands
Drenched with the tears
of a mourning December sky
A peasant was driving his cart to Camors
near the plan of Treauray a lamentable figure

Seeped in his eyes…

Hobbling, stumbling, crawling,
with the help of a rotten stick
An aged hunched crone was travelling
Awful face, soulless eyes,
Cheeks hollow like an open grave
in a christian charity impulse he drove her

Pestilence rides, dressed in rags…

The horse was rushing
as if the devil’s whip was hitting his rump
Old woman was sitting in the back of the cart
hemmed a noxious aura of sickness and death
Atmosphere corrupted
with an unbearable pathogenic stench

The bell tower of Camors
Appeared through the crying clouds

"Here I stop !
I take charge of destroying this land

When my task is accomplished
graves will be so numerous,
There won’t be any room left to bury corpses.
It’s the Plague, peasant,
that you brought to Camors !"

So many cadavers, no gravedigger
was left alive to bury them all
Megalith, Cromlech,
rocks of the castle of Konomor
Mineral substances last longer than flesh

Life is only a desperate rush to the grave
The great finale is Death,
pestilence and oblivion

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust…
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust…

Conclusion of this tale is no prayer,
no bible, no crucified fool
Will carry your soul to an everlasting paradise
where daily life is a survival,
men erect weakness in shapes of a cross
In a cage of granite and wood,
all flesh is destined to rot

Krœz Er Vossen…
Krœz Er Vossen…