В каждом дождливом звуке — тень ушедших эпох.
Тальхарпа шепчет о династиях, что растворяются, как капли на стекле.
Музыка — как дождь: простая, но неизбежная.
И в этой протяжности мы слушаем и узнаем себя.

And who are you, the proud lord said,
that I must bow so low?
Only a cat of a different coat,
that's all the truth I know.
In a coat of gold or a coat of red,
a lion still has claws,
And mine are long and sharp, my lord,
as long and sharp as yours.
And so he spoke, and so he spoke,
that lord of Castamere,
But now the rains weep o'er his hall,
with no one there to hear.
Yes now the rains weep o'er his hall,
and not a soul to hear.