White death (Trude)

In the heart of ban Bansko a legend is told For fly fisherman Kiril Razakov And his fly white death they call it a sight to behold In the river it dances shimmering and bold Anglers from afar they come to seek For the white death's magic so mystique With rods in hand and hearts on fire They cast their lines reaching higher and higher Through the misty mountains the river flows Where the white death beckons it never slows A symphony of grace in the air it glows As the anglers chase after their passion grows Through the misty mountains, the river flows Where the white death beckons it never slows A symphony of grace in the air it glows As the anglers chase after their passion grows In the twilight hours the white death shines A prize so coveted in their anguished minds They feel its power their hearts entwined With the symphonic grace they're truly aligned So listen to the tale, of the legend so rare The white death in Bansko beyond compare A symphonic metal song in the crisp mountain air For those who seek glory it will always be there Through the misty mountains the river flows Where the white death beckons it never slows A symphony of grace in the air it glows As the anglers chase after their passion grows So listen to the tale of the legend so rare The white death in Bansko beyond compare A symphonic metal song in the crisp mountain air For those who seek glory it will always be there