The ancient in the hill, He sings rhymes of terror. Mounted in his horse, He guided the convoy. Desperate shouts echoed among mounts And the caravan went straight ahead To the Valley of Souls it headed, And the ancient sang his rhymes. The cavalry marched And up-stream the frozen wind Headed the caravan of souls. In each wagon of the convoy Don't saw it any life, Only the empty souls Of that they hadn't believed in the Judgment Day. In each pit stop there was an agglomeration of more souls Attracted by lullaby of the old man, That prophesied in every single verse The destiny of them all. The ancient mounted in his horse Guided the caravan until your final stop Vomiting the plague, And fulfilling his sad destiny.