When the snows fall, and the white winds blow,
The black crows feast on the frozen sow,
They pierce its rotten skin and flap their wings in wrath,
For there is no more game nor a single blood bath.
The pale stag wipes its muzzle for a snippet of grass,
For there is no more fertile land, only frozen weed.
Herbs that have been petrified in time and consumed by cold,
Cold that has made the nights longer and the days darker.
Nights full of terrors and bursting chill.
And days in which no sun smiles nor beading light,
Only biting cold and swallowing mirk.
Thus, behind the woods wolves with their sharp fangs lurked,
In the gloomy twilight wandering for flesh.
And enticed by weakened deer in agony,
They seize their dinner in fury.
Small creatures are born and die in the long night,
Ignoring the growing fear outside their caves and fright.
Shall they one day see the sun and know the word of bright,
For there is nothing better than vivid life and dazzling light.
