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