Under the moonlight, in winter's realm The trees are silent, the wolves as well Only the footsteps of men are heard As they carry the wooden hearse
Mournful cries, flowing tears Into the forest, they disappear
And from the trees, a funeral dirge The forest mourners are forever heard
Under the evening fog the torches burn The flaming flickers, light the twists and turns And when they reach the sacred grove The air gets colder, death consumes the shadows