The Harvestry of Ghosts

Grim nor gale shall hinder clove or heather Ghouls nor satyr
Partakes goblets and gold fount

CHORUS
Years have I longed for pleasant times
From the harvestry of your heart
Cursed am I to be nurtured by
The hollow of ghosts haunting realm
He who seeks shall find her
Gifts more fine than silver

Memory the crowning deed of torment Sifts it sickle with the roar
Of giants