Cold misty winter, late afternoon

The time is short, is running low

On the river's surface, appears a mill

It sunk a long, long time ago



The old, lame miller goes ashore

I know what he's searching for



Death, pain,agony

Famin is spread all through the land

Death, pain,agony

The white fog is carried by the air



Pale, bony fingers search through the fields

They scratch out nourishing seed

The wicked miller fills his bags

With all the stolen winter wheat



He grinds the corn and flour fills the air

Flour turns to fog bringing hunger and dispair



Death, pain,agony....



Everytime when this fog appears

There'll be no harvest only hunger and tears



Death, pain, agony....