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Whispered ’neath the twisted boughs and o’er the ancient stones,
They say the village lies forsaken, empty and alone.
They say ’twas she who called them down to Nav, beneath the deep,
The cruel Boyar dragged ’neath the waves, her vengeance there to reap.
For she was once a fair young maid, a mother to a son.
A widow pale, left on her own, her toil was never done.
But then that Boyar saw her plight, her beauty so divine,
And swore he’d take her for his wife, he would no longer pine.
But that sweet maid did want him not, and for her babe she feared.
She knew he was a cruel man, a brute who beat and leered.
He asked her thrice to be his bride, and thrice she did refuse.
And so he burned her house to ash; her young son she did lose.
She begged the village for their help, but none would hear her cry.
Her child was gone, they would not let her bury him nearby.
She had no home, no place to turn, she knew she couldn’t stay,
Or else the Boyar would come make his claim that very day.
She swiftly fled into the woods, the boy’s soul she would save,
The young one’s bones within her grasp, the lake would be his grave.
But that Boyar did mount his steed and chase her through the wood,
The burial was scarcely done—before her there he stood.
There was no talk of marriage now; he took her, raw and forced,
The poor girl cried with grief and white-hot rage within her coursed.
She fought him hard, was nearly free; she’d swim to get away,
He caught her hair and drowned her in the lake to make her pay.
When she awoke her flesh was gray, she had not pulse nor breath,
She realized she had been blessed with vengeance in her death.
And so the dread rusalka sang and lured the children hence,
To rest with her sweet child beneath the lake for recompense.
And last of all, the Boyar she did make to beg and plead,
Then drown himself before her eyes to suffer for his deed.
She took the scoundrel by the hair and dragged him to the deep,
Where she now lives and keeps the children in eternal sleep.
None know why the village fled, and no soul dares to tell—
Some speak of plague; some speak of famine; others of her spell.
The curse clings like mist o’er the water, cold and thin as breath,
And children warn, with trembling lips:
"To see her is your death."
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Ohhh. This ballad is one of your most atmospheric songs I'd say, I love it.
Beautiful ballad. It had a hint of Viking vibes with the drums.