? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? Reinhardt

In the orient of sunshine, bugles blow aloud,

Fear enshrouds the castle as the gate collapses,

He stamps out from the trembling crowds,

Justice will be done by me, he snaps.

He darts forward with swords in hands,

Slashing at enemies like reaping ling,

Feeding land with blood as it demands,

Foes’ deafening cries make the welkin ring.

Noise of bugles slowly fades away,

Along with the light in his tearful eyes,

The priest holds his face and sincerely prays

To God that true hero might never die.

? ? ? ? Spirit of the glorious Reinhardt,

? ? ? ? You live in this, and dwell in people’s heart.