*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."