The ancient runes emblazoned the wall,
In a mystic chamber so secret,
In the light of the fire, a dreary glow,
An old myth so sacred,
From the ashes shall rise,
The unborn shall croak,
With flaps of it wings,
the phoenix shall stroke.
A dawn awakens,
and wait for light,
a misty emblem,
in the dark of the night.
The evil lord
has found his death,
by a power so ancient,
the dark lord hates.
The half-moon glasses,
finally rest in peace,
the battle was won,
the Lord recedes.