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Born from the emptiness

Where fire and frost unite

The ice melts into the chasm

Clouds gather round the chariot

Fly over the fertile ground

Choosing among the fallen brave for the great hall

I desire that Hrist and Mist

would bring me my horn

The white swan gathers me

Upon the bosom of light

Never within sight of man

Without the masquerade

Omen of the storm

Bestow Meade to the warriors in the afterlife