Blood on The Steppes
Away to the steppes, to the mountains we go,
Where my people rule our kingdom of snow,
With copses of pine trees and sward ever-green,
Like a still-life painting, an undefilable scene.
But how wrong I was with my raw, youthful views,
Soon a warm crimson tide would paint deep scarlet hues,
Our happiness, eternally locked in a tomb,
Sails on the horizon, an imminent doom.
The Norse had come, those beasts from afar,
They'd salted our fields, filled the wells with tar,
The churches they burned, the hamlets they ravaged,
The castles they looted, our kingdom was savaged.
For days I searched for the family I'd lost,
Stumbling past bodies glassed-over with frost,
Looking for strength in the tall mountain pines,
When I stumbled upon the most ghastly of finds.
My brother he laid there, his body was broken,
And I'll never forget the words that he spoke then,
Andreyev, he croaked, tell mother I've gone,
Help her to cope; you're the Tzar from now on.