Bolvangar

Dry is the wasteland´s wind, that blows away our memory.
No joy, no kind and no kin. This land is dead. Deep within
there is only the lone and long endured huriccane,
Where men of shallow pride now reign.

Dragonflys swarm, where wolves will be born
In this place of distress, in this place that means death.
Bears and boars roam, for food that´s long gone.
In this place of distress, in this place that means death.
All men sharpen with skill their desire to kill
In this place of distress, in this place that means death.

Men are now wolves
And wind is a scream
from a banshee that roams
Deepest ravines.

We close our doors and lock them tight,
We dare not speak, not even a plight.
In this place, where everyday is night!