Текст пісні
We counted the world in shorelines
Measured kings by how fast they ran
South—just a richer horizon
And we were the storm of men
Oars bite slow, the river makes way
Dragon-prows grin under the sun
Salt in the beard, iron in the grin—
We laugh at walls as if they're done
Axes bright, shields like moons in a row
We drink down fear with salt on our tongues
Our boots write law on mosaic and ash
And every scream sounds like songs we've sung
But the air goes tight—too quiet, too straight
No running feet, no open gate
Only doors that close like shields
And distant horns that answer, "We see."
Stomp—stomp—down the river road
Stomp—stomp—heavy with the gold
Stomp—stomp—hear the viking song
Stomp—stomp—feel that things are wrong
Stomp—stomp—smoke on the water's skin
Stomp—stomp—fire crawling in
Stomp—stomp—luck that slips away
Stomp—stomp—palms that turn to graves
First it's a whisper: more banners, more drums
Then the banks grow teeth with shields and spears
Not one lord—no, a moving country
Arriving in waves that never clears
Their riders draw circles, their archers speak
Their lines don't fold when we shove and roar
They trade ground for time, they trade blood for a snare
And the river behind us feels less like a door
We thought the current would carry our myth
We thought the reeds would hide our sins
But nets are woven out of orders and patience—
And every splash says, "It begins."
Stomp—stomp—down the river road
Stomp—stomp—heavy with the gold
Stomp—stomp—hear the viking song
Stomp—stomp—feel that things are wrong
Stomp—stomp—smoke on the water's skin
Stomp—stomp—fire crawling in
Stomp—stomp—luck that slips away
Stomp—stomp—palms that turn to graves
A jar breaks open—night turns alive
Fire crawls out on the skin of the stream
It clings to spray, it bites the planks
It eats the tar like a starving fiend
"Push off!"—too slow. "Cut loose!"—too late
Ropes scream prayers no god will take
Masts become torches, sails become shrouds—
And the river itself is a burning snake
Wood howls. Men wail. The bright world snaps
Smoke is a ceiling we cannot lift
I find my brother in the ash-black air
Not singing a saga—just trying to live
On the bank: a choice with no clean edge—
Kneel and live, or stand and die
Some swallow new words like bitter water
Some laugh with salt-cracked, hollow eyes
Towering palms become sudden gallows
Beauty made brutal, shade made a sign
And every knot is a question to us
A deadly question - live or decline?
Stomp—stomp—down the river road
Stomp—stomp—heavy with the gold
Stomp—stomp—hear the viking song
Stomp—stomp—feel that things are wrong
Stomp—stomp—smoke on the water's skin
Stomp—stomp—fire crawling in
Stomp—stomp—luck that slips away
Stomp—stomp—palms that turn to graves