Перевод песни Matt Brand, Jan Thomas – In From The Funeral Fields
Работает на технологии Яндекс.Переводчика
Wherefore snarls this knell at daybreak in leaden contempt of mortal strife? Spiteful doom-sayer and bleak warning, a cackling fit to seal a life Beckon me not home from war, beckon me not home from war Beckon not at Mother’s door From the fields where our souls soar from their bodies as they plunge from their ranks into oblivion they will turn home; we will no more The sun wakes red on the horizon, mirrored in a sea of blood Beyond the hill, bells ring out horrors as I wade through th' accursèd flood Engulfed within the price of war, as I drown in the prize of war Can God still head each dying roar? To the fields where a man draws to the ranks that drive him on to an end within oblivion I once had turned to return no more solo: Matt As prayers cease, the chime redoubles, as time has left the funeral fields O’er the hills the horrors pour, in from murder and from war In from murder, in through murder, in with murder from their war As I came in from murder, in with murder Can God still heed each dying roar?