In fields where do not shine the stars, where flesh have turned to dust, the bones of ancient gods among the cosmos display their scars. I enter thee, ye shadow land, where light doesn't burn enough, advance through the stardust and the sand. I've heard to tame you is my destination. Collect astral spheres to build my ephemeral cathedral. A place to rest, a tomb to wait a death that will never come. Nudge the oxen, drive the plough, don't think about the sentence of he who sows the nebulae, spending eternity in isolation. Thousand moons will crush and die and be dispersed to rubble, dissolving souls in the emptiness of deep unborn oceans. The spectral oxen make the path with sunlights on their antlers. A yoke to the gates of entropy, prelude to cosmic madness. The cloak now shines but will disappear, as tails of erratic planets. Crowned with asteroids and gas, in his eyes two shattered novas. A lone crusader through the nightsky, a whip, a scythe and ashes. Lost in the mists of nebula, waiting for the reaping of his stars.

A line of solar sailers propelled by the distant light are cruising to the places where langsyne reigned the night. The seeds have grown to blossoms. The spikes have flourished to suns. The grindstones stroke the scythes. Under the hoods, smiles arise. Some battleships approaches, carrying veterans of hundred wars, but none shall gaze the faces of those who harvest the stars. Canyons bright over gray stelae cruisers left behind. The reapers begin their journey, the harvest have been started. After the awakening of Pleiades, the birth of Aldebaran. Four-winged galaxies are launched afar, spinning through the gas. Once again, the eternal cycle that keeps the flames of live, He-Who-Sows-the-Nebulae and Those-Who-Harvest-the-Stars. Twin faces in the universe, like Ianus' double head. Ones must to destroy, so others can consecrate their lives to creation. "What's the fate of the reapers of suns when the harvest is ended and done? Time to sleep amidst the centuries to come. Time to wait to replace what destroys the war." Lightning skies, the rays and the blasts, silent deployment of fire and dust, draining the stars and burning the suns, clusters of novas reduced to the rust. Nebula fades as a torch in the dark, the human plague succumb to the wrath. Galaxies blazing, battleships clashed. The reapers will sleep til the next sowing of stars.

Instrumental. English translation: "Legion IV Immortal"

*Based on a poem (in Baaldro) of the ficticious bard Băen. ¡Drõneo, skell, il svall! Ins evbeuel svindraëg săme. Dras Balad Ħiam betna svall, og evbeunŋ sir Gand Ale. ¿Var agno'ëg ven na lйarr-alăida mohnokraëg ħo m'evbeu? ¿Var eivo'ëg ven na ƥarr grăkanaërëg vranăida ħo ka ħ'œs? Ia eiva eo'sйkërans varagell, eos băre-krabespăr, eos nuore varr ƥovrërons dras ħvido-uglok og ħar. Ven n'stranŋ uraërëg, n'evbeuell noskaëra meйdan oйm l'ashgërans ev den ƥ'ipse gotarr agërans kvorăida. Ħor mohn g'glaëg dra'svatr, svăll ħo telos okraйn. Nebõl mildraëg ħo lăgamm og drasvrons evħlos ëmal. Vakleƥei svike meйda og klæds ev ħvido sekaëg. Betna droke gõrr veran, n'Ale Gotar skăl svoneraëg. Am kalte nagh, na sõrdd-skag naħ'evale vika sek. Na nurr-ol, den ħosten-tol, den skade varagel slek. Evħlos glovħ, vraida hvi sloƥ il g'ivete drai-balad. Velaraëg blur ħ'utre varnur. ¡Svħareo ħ'og tħairen elv'skad! ¡Drõneo, skell, il svall! Ins evbeuel svindraëg săme. Dras Balad Ħiam betna svall, og evbeunŋ sir Gand Ale. "Mære meйda kanaëg ʒasaroveŋ, mær'evbeuell kanaëra aghnæŋ betna tйm-vagarăida; skeƥæŋ eos alionŋ ev săraŋ, eos gandd ev kenhaŋ, eos koйm varr ev evħloss; pamйaræŋ ƥo goronŋ ur erërans ħo koйm skăll sйr' in'sidhe sleʒa, duraй tolka sйr' kreŋ kanaërank bsëræŋ ħo kйm ħvõrklige nærr... Lo bse meйda ħagaëg tõ sirneŋ: ukaйtagæŋ ħo ighan e' beʒavræŋ dra'săger." English translation: "From Baladhia II (People of the Fog)" Look at the fog, comrades! A bard is wandering alone. From Baladhia, amidst the mists, eight tunes for the Great King. What can be sung when the greatness of a nation eclipse the song? What can be told when the words cannot explain their deeds? I speak about the heros that died, about the broken spear of the brave, about the new wars that will come from the lair of the mankind's future. When the stars mourn, the bards dream about songs that, if were listened, even the gods themselves would shudder. Now moon doesn't shine in sky, mists have hidden everything. Fog creeps the cries of the battles that tomorrow comes. Battlesongs are the sweet music of victory and future. Among dark silhouettes of the towers, lurks the spirit of the Dark God. In the cold night, the touch of the swords is the greatest solace. Sound of a horn, charging gallop, then the wounded soldier sleeps. Smell of battle, outward journey to the inhospitable lands of death. Blood splatters the old war horn. Feel the cruel wound of destination! Look at the fog, comrades! A bard is wandering alone. From Baladhia, amidst the mists, eight tunes for the Great King. "Many chants can be composed, many bards can sing through the streaming of ages, portray empires and kingdoms, kings and queens, their big wars and battles; honor the heroes who give their souls in just cause to let us enjoy today our miserable lives... But every song has two purposes: immortalizing a memory and escaping the silence."