Sword of Charlemagne (English)

His eyes are grey steel, a frozen blue, Crown of golden light, and shining true. Stays thirty-five, an ageless face, When Kings call for blood, his sword brings God's grace Marquis de Brumenoir, veilleur des champs Guardian on high, upon Mt Blanc Beloved, feared, by Heaven’s will, None can say if he's mortal still He bleeds in war, yet perishes not, His soldiers shout the triumph he's wrought. He feeds the poor, but his eyes are still cold No wife, no sons, a tale untold The Sword of Charlemagne, forever raised, Shrouded in mist, his name still praised. Condemned by some as fallen and damned, Hailed by others as God's own hand. A holy blessing, or clever trick? Immortal knight, or timeless politics? The people sing, The King leads the choir. Yet reason demands: is he fire? The Sword of Charlemagne, forever raised, Shrouded in mist, his name still praised. Condemned by some as fallen and damned, Hailed by others as God's own hand. Marquis de Brumenoir, veilleur des champs Guardian on high, upon Mt Blanc Beloved, feared, by Heaven’s will, None can say if he's mortal still