by Jean le Corbeau

Long time ago, I saw his face
That great shadow, I called friend
He carried a great sword
On that red and terrible battlefield
Many men lay there in their blood
And the ravens feathered in black

Today he appeared again in black
With that great and shining sword
And I looked into his face
Then I remembered the smell of blood
And the carnage of the battlefield
And called it friend

And to that good old friend
I rise in greetings with blood
I walk over that big battlefield
Wearing my armor and cloak in black
The morning breeze blows in my face
And then, with grace I draw my sword

The morning rays gleam in my sword
Then before me, terror fills a face
The shining edge falls, and turns red of blood
That sharp and fearsome friend
I look upon another man in black
Who slowly falls upon that battlefield

That horrible battlefield
Which in my dreams, always will be black
There many a man, today lost a friend
They will never again see that face
Rust will cover that dropped sword
And dark turns the blood

All the men who have shed their blood
On many a different battlefield
Some with armour in black
All with shield and sword
On that field many lost a friend
Sorrow could be seen in every face

And the dark man with the sword
Which I called friend
In the mirror I see my face