Graven Takeheimens Saler - Darkthrone

Naberg reiste seg, n'r ved Mannahemens garden.

ѓkstid, Sverdtid, ufred var der ikke — dog var er byllepestens plager.

Ingen gjestet frender, ingen gjestet prest,

ingen drog til byen, uten lanse og til hest.

I Opphavs tider sang de sanger, for seg selv og sine fedre.

I dag synges kun de sanger, som skal gjѓre morgendagen bedre.

Sanger for den neste, ingen sanger for den Beste.

Svik og lѓgn har fatt sin plass, i midgard jotneses palass.

En mann vandret rolig, sikker, stolt der mellom hus.

Han ferdedes blant folk, han trakket tyredd der blant mus.

Flere hundre menn, han gjestet hver kald natt.

Han var enѓyd, hѓy og tynn, og pa sitt hode bar han hatt

Ensom mann han vandret, over bivsrot en kald morgen.

Han ristet pa sitt hode, over menneskenes tap.

For de sikret seg en plass, i en ufѓdt tragisk himmel,

for de vandret nor og ned, for de ratnet i Hels fred

Naberg got up, near Mannahemen's garden.

Exodus, sword time, unrest were not there - however were were the plagues of the bubonic plague.

No guest friends, no guest priest,

no one went to the city, without a lance and on horseback.

In the days of Origin, they sang songs, for themselves and their fathers.

Today, only the songs that will make tomorrow better are sung.

Songs for the next, no songs for the Best.

Fraud and lies have found their place in Midgard Jotnes' palace.

A man walked calmly, confidently, proudly there between houses.

He roamed among the people, he dreaded there among the mice.

Hundreds of men, he visited every cold night.

He was one-eyed, tall and thin, and wore a hat on his head

Lonely man he wandered, over beeswax one cold morning.

He shook his head at the loss of the people.

For they secured a place, in an unborn tragic heaven,

for they wandered north and down, for they rattled in the peace of Hel