If ashes of burnt bone
can reveal the future,
what need is there of prayer?
Mongke Khan is a'horseback...
a great grassy plain all around.
If no sword, no arrow, no knife
can kill an eternal man, it is by fever.
Mongke Khan, grandson of Genghis Khan,
laughs and smiles, wheels his Mongolian horse.
I freed men from superstition with blood,
ran my horses through Kiev-on-fire.
My people sacked the last Caliphate,
butchered Baghdad... left blood-mud.
I lived half a hundred years.
Mongke Khan reins-in his horse,
considers thin clouds... a pale moon,
Perhaps the fever that killed me
signaled a world growing old.