Cold winds tore across the open steppe,

As dark clouds gather and block out the sun.

Rumbling of thunder foretells the unborn moira,

Bodies of the subjugated proclaim the prince of gore.

Crom Cruach, the bloody bent god of the mound,

Demanding prostration in blood and guts through massacre.

Sending his only begotten son to worship and give thanks,

On the fields of battle swings Mölva, the blood-soaked warhammer.

Cú Crom, the gloomy, warped one, wicked be thy name,

Mightily shouldered and deep of chest, with a massive corded neck.

Scarred, sinister face, sullen green eyes with a black unruly beard,

Pale, white skin painted crimson red from the corpses of the dead.

Nine hard rubies set in the silver crown resting on his head,

Wearing a looped, man-skin tunic and cloak with breastplate.

On smashed flesh ravens feed with wolves scouring the land,

Grief and sorrow where the hound of Crom roam murderous.

Becoming an unrecognizable monster who knows not man or beast,

Fights from a grullo steed, driving down many a warrior horde.

Heart boomed loud like the baying of the Cŵn Annwn,

Annihilation be quick for the heroes who dare be brave and bold.

Hel, daughter of the Morrigu, war goddess,

Thighs and legs are deceased, mottled and moldering.

Showing herself to the lame and dying,

Stench permeates the sun baked theater of strife.

Chop and crunch, the snapping of bones, splattering of blood,

Delectation of cooked brains and sinew of the vanquished.

Long pig consumed, drum beat till dawn, fear and dread,   

A breathless silence reigning over all the living forevermore.

There be stories of great slaughter and mayhem,

The crying of queens, old woman and sirens.

Shields scattered over the ground in multitudes,

There be mangling of wounds and mounds made of the slain.