Green Glass Violins

In the white shadow of the moon
As it hovers in the rafters of the roof
The war machines are turning to the east
They crouch in fields like leopards at a feast
Muddy maps where ancient roads have wound
The path the young gods walked and burned the ground
The stones stand beneath the winter sky
Pagan runes on barrow high

The forces of the evil ride them out
On winged machines they're taking off and heading for the south
The dragon lord his mantle torn by steel
Is crushed beneath a slowly grinding wheel