Ballad of the Fight

epic saga, hardcore metal, mosh, hardcore raspy male voice, guitar breakdowns with slow parts, aggressive vocals

Our hair to sweaty brows would often cling,
    A sweet pang in our guts when phrases sing.
    The scent of battles, in our heads would swirl,
    From yellowed pages, down on us to hurl.
    We tried to grasp, who knew no warring cry,
    Mistaking howl of wind for battle nigh.
    The secret of "command", the borders to define,
    Attack's true sense, and clash of chariots in line.

And in the boiling pots of slaughters, times of strife,
    Such food for little brains, throughout our life!
    We cast in roles of Judas, cowards, traitors base,
    Appointing foes in games in childhood's place.
    And villain's traces, never let them cool,
    And fairest ladies, promised we'd still rule
    And friends appeasing, and to loved ones being kind,
    As heroes we imagined, roles we'd surely find.

But dreams, you cannot flee to them for long,
    Short is the joy of games - so much pain all wrong!
    Try to unclench the fists of those who've died,
    And take the weapon from hands that toiled and plied.
    Test it, possessing yet the warm-still blade,
    And armor donned, see what price must be paid!
    Decide, who are you - coward, chosen by fate,
    And taste the bitter tang of struggle, truly great.

And when a wounded comrade falls beside your form,
    And o'er first loss you howl, consumed by storm,
    And when you're left skinless, all raw and bare,
    Because they killed him - not you standing there.
    You'll grasp what you have learned, discerned, and found,
    By bared teeth you know - death's grin, profound and bound!
    Look at the lies and evil, faces rough and steep!
    And always in the rear - the ravens and the deep.

If meat from knife you've never had a bite,
    If arms you folded, watched from lofty height,
    And never joined the fight with villain, vile knave,
    Then in this life, you were of naught, no worth to save!
    If hacking path with father's sword so keen,
    You salty tears upon your mustache gleaned,
    If in the heat of battle, you've known what things all mean,
    Then needed books, in childhood, you had seen.

2570/7500

Amongst the candles low, and ev'ning's gentle prayer, Amongst war trophies, hearths of peace to share, Lived children of the book, who battles didn't face, Yet small woes they suffered, in their youthful space. Their age and their life, a constant discontent, We fought till we bled, and deep offenses sent, But clothes were all mended by mothers swift and true, And books we devoured, their verses seeing through. Our hair to sweaty brows would often cling, A sweet pang in our guts when phrases sing. The scent of battles, in our heads would swirl, From yellowed pages, down on us to hurl. We tried to grasp, who knew no warring cry, Mistaking howl of wind for battle nigh. The secret of "command", the borders to define, Attack's true sense, and clash of chariots in line. And in the boiling pots of slaughters, times of strife, Such food for little brains, throughout our life! We cast in roles of Judas, cowards, traitors base, Appointing foes in games in childhood's place. And villain's traces, never let them cool, And fairest ladies, promised we'd still rule And friends appeasing, and to loved ones being kind, As heroes we imagined, roles we'd surely find. But dreams, you cannot flee to them for long, Short is the joy of games - so much pain all wrong! Try to unclench the fists of those who've died, And take the weapon from hands that toiled and plied. Test it, possessing yet the warm-still blade, And armor donned, see what price must be paid! Decide, who are you - coward, chosen by fate, And taste the bitter tang of struggle, truly great. And when a wounded comrade falls beside your form, And o'er first loss you howl, consumed by storm, And when you're left skinless, all raw and bare, Because they killed him - not you standing there. You'll grasp what you have learned, discerned, and found, By bared teeth you know - death's grin, profound and bound! Look at the lies and evil, faces rough and steep! And always in the rear - the ravens and the deep. If meat from knife you've never had a bite, If arms you folded, watched from lofty height, And never joined the fight with villain, vile knave, Then in this life, you were of naught, no worth to save! If hacking path with father's sword so keen, You salty tears upon your mustache gleaned, If in the heat of battle, you've known what things all mean, Then needed books, in childhood, you had seen.

0/500