Besmeared The Tunic Of Honour

Besmeared the Tunic of Honour
With blood of filthy crusaders
Sword slit neat cut from throat to gut
Their axes rape these woods no more

Wounds in the memory of earth
Deeds of the morally corrupt
Legions of a spiritual plague
Marching under flag of a failed man

The woods have no concept of mercy

Phantasmagoriac projections nocturnal
Led the frail-minded into terror
Panicking, sweating prayers
Scaring their stallions astray

Phantasmagoriac projections sepulchrally haunting
Cast forth by the sorcery of trees

Misantropical Painforest
Does not know pity
For unfriendly invaders
Misantropical Painforest
Weaving its dream of magery and deep-rooted might

The pain you may feel in the deepness of its shadows
Will tear your heart apart
With the longing it conjures
Longing for infinity
And the abnormal purity of being

The woods have no concept of pity

The pain you may feel in your guts
If your heart is insincere
Is a sign of a forthcoming
Misantropical disembowelment

Besmeared the Tunic of Honour
The strong-hearted legionary stands
Laughter so grim
As the life of the mentally disturbed
Is absorbed by the soil
Of the forest-land

Honour for the ancient woods
Untouched by the mankind's aberrations
Honour for the spirit woods
Untamed and ever-vibrant
Honour for the purity of lands
Where worries and haste are dethroned by depth
Honour for the purity of heart
Of those who adventure the forests
With respect, awe and ruthless wits

The woods have no time for compassion

Human is animal among others
And when the wolves howl at the midnight fullmoon
The beasts of Honour
Gather around the Centervortex
Then new tales shall be told
And heard...