We dug our holes and opened Goblin caves, we harvested frightfully as if they were haystacks.
The day has now arrived for the harvest of the land where rivers make the entrails gleam silver.
The stones hide pure metal like water, streams that sparkle in the light from the torch.
The jealousy of the sun and the light of day must not enter the land where rivers make the entrails gleam silver.
Now let the hammers resound, let them strike the mithril, the dwarves will work with mithril from the earth.
We are good craftsmen, but art requires patience in the land where rivers make the entrails gleam silver.
Gods of the dwarves, we make a warm prayer to you, let oaths and tolls disappear forever from the earth.
Because the day has arrived for the harvest of the land where rivers make the entrails gleam silver.
