The spirits of sickness and death Are tearing apart my flesh, The fiends of the underworld Are scattering my bones, Those who reside in the black marquees Are piercing my brain with an iron spear, The ones with venomous tongues Are spilling my blood over barren earth. Then the bird with iron feathers gathers my bones And sews my flesh together with her iron claws, The BirdofPreyMother feeds me with my new blood And rocks my new soul in the iron cradle. And when my time will come, And when my light will dusk, The Mother will come to me And spread her iron wings, To carry my soul far beyond To the lands of great shamans, To carry my spirit far away To the lands of the glorious dead.
iron, birdofpreymother, sews, marquee, carry