Above the battlefield she waits on carrion wings Wrapped in the cloak of the gathering storm War drums and battle cries, these hymns are raised on high The screams of men and the sound of the horns Music of madness, she steps to the measure Calling the tune of a deadly pavanne Lady of the Battlefield, Queen of the warrior band Flame hair and blood red hand, she is The Morrigan On wings of war and death, she stoops to claim her prize Taking her choice of the pick of the slain Berserker fury falls on those who heed her call, Goddess of darkness and terror and pain Chained by their fear are the ones who oppose her Sister to Furies that none can withstand And the rivers of blood Run through her hands She is The Morrigan Beside the fire she sits in robes of tattered grey She and her sisters, the handmaids of fate Shape shifted ancient hag, crow-black and raven-wild She casts the runes of destruction and hate Washing the clothes of the damned and the dying Shaping men’s future since conflict began She is the cleansing flame from which we rise again Under the waning moon, triumphant and free And when all hope is gone and pity lingers on She is the killing stroke that ends misery Bringing release from the sorrow and suffering Mercy that only the dead understand She is..... she is......she is The Morrigan