The clouds are gray, and on his way
Notorious spirits arise to play
Around this isle, where once the bile
Of the god of War surveyed every mile
Although uncertain he decides to go
His hope is simple: to stand in a row
Of knights and swords and bows
A black nightmare freezes her hair
It almost seizes her mind so rare
As every night a trace of light
Takes her alone in an eerie sight
And in her vision lies a maid so frail
An incantaion echoes like the wail
Of people worn and pale
Waiting for his return, a boy plays
Tunes that take him back to the days
Of the Great Six, the brilliant epic never fades
She knows for whom she'll face the doom
As long as this isle is someone's tomb
He wonders why they all come by
To help him, though his ideal so high
She never hesitates to exercise
Her mystic insight and to help the wise
From Fate she never hides
Waiting for his return, a boy sings
Songs the ancients sang for their kings
To his lute swirls the air
And you may hear the rings
La, la, la...
And you may hear the rings
La, la, la...
And you may hear the rings