Strange Ways to Ancient Times
(<em>Instrumental</em>)
Submitted by Finntroll — Jun 22, 2026
Walk the Path of Conquest While stands my bold soul these roaring black storms, in hate against minstrels of sorrow and sloth, th' old will-to-conquer my voice proudly exalts, with no friendly eyes summoning to war. Rueful sights of fall'n souls confounding life, stripp'd of all dignity and thirst to fight, unmoved saw i to spread from the north fading the gleam of the spear and the sword. I see now a way through our woods and their night, to walk there the paths of improvement and rise, to learn and advance from despair and from want, and to reach victory by forging new arms. So take all weights upon the wreckling back and do defy the worst that can befall; rejoicing in war, as in th' steepest paths, my powers thus grow, my mind aims to might. The blind poet bespoke: «Which way shall i fly, infinite wrath, and infinite despair?» Which way i fly is pride; myself am pride; and may th' low'st deep be in fact a hidd'n height.
Submitted by Finntroll — Jun 22, 2026
Aspiring Heights Shine bitterly eternal eyes at the revenge of the mean lame, the feebles' cunning and the guile preach loud th' equality of men. The masks fall rolling now afar that ne'er deceiv'd me with their snares, so seeks the low to blind the high to veil the crumbling of the race. A revolution of sore plebs, their only base way to stand up, craving the falling of the great, just wise lone souls can blight their plans. Spurning the jews' and marxist lies, treading the last man's values through, i breath the air of lonesome heights bearing a proud cold solitude. Wide in these lands they do exist, the hierarchies of mind and might; though upside-down the mass is seeing, still shall my pow'rs aspire the heights.
Submitted by Finntroll — Jun 22, 2026
A Lone Disdainful Proud Spirit Am i 'mid storms or am a storm myself, a dark lone spirit fierce and proud, where wars tear deep and wide the dismal air of night in fleeting sights of bloody deeds and wise? Forging new values in the dark, to root a high chosen soul fall'n in hateful art, i cast my mind to baleful wrecks i wrought, this sere void trying there to justify. Can i see it, the study of revenge, the injur'd merit sheltering aloft, the black cloak and the hate, all that dragg'd me tow'rds desolations that my air became? But be it so; spurn the herd, shun the life, a distant tower in the night erect, there to dwell far remov'd thus from a world which foul repels in scorn my eyes away. Night, void, ye are my high abode, and books and ancient works of those who rose 'bove man; proud i sneer o'er the vulgar crowd below: vain now th' attempts shall be to throw me hence.
Submitted by Finntroll — Jun 22, 2026
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Submitted by Finntroll — Jun 22, 2026
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Submitted by Finntroll — Jun 22, 2026
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Submitted by Finntroll — Jun 22, 2026
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Submitted by Finntroll — Jun 22, 2026
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Submitted by Finntroll — Jun 22, 2026
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Submitted by Finntroll — Jun 22, 2026
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Submitted by Finntroll — Jun 22, 2026
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Submitted by Finntroll — Jun 22, 2026
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Submitted by Finntroll — Jun 22, 2026
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Submitted by Finntroll — Jun 22, 2026
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Submitted by Finntroll — Jun 22, 2026
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Submitted by Finntroll — Jun 22, 2026
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Submitted by Finntroll — Jun 22, 2026
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Submitted by Finntroll — Jun 22, 2026
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Submitted by Finntroll — Jun 22, 2026
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Submitted by Finntroll — Jun 22, 2026
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Submitted by Finntroll — Jun 22, 2026
(<em>Instrumental</em>)
Submitted by Finntroll — Jun 22, 2026