Texty:
Nomans Land The Last Son Of The Fjord

The ice chains will be broken by the first coming rill And sleeply mighty hands will feel free again Refreshing vital juices will run thru young veins

Hail, dragons of the sea! That sprouted by s dread Wood of spears, covered by fame Not once you tore vermin meat Enought for you in foreign lands To

Nobody will grieve and sob, when He once will fall asleep forever Only rain will drop avaricious tear In the name of last son of a fjord The nearest

Golden rye waits in the fields For the harvest coming up Man is waiting for sunise Bears crown to try on Wind bends rye spikes to the ground This time