Winter is forming,
three years of hiding I must take.
From ash an destruction and the forests never to awake.
From the sky they fell, tormenting this mortal realm.
A death overcoming both peasant and king.
Lonely winds now whisper, into the trees they speak,
The voice of the fallen carried on the leaves.
What's left of carnage, of war and decease?
All that remains are desolate wastelands and anguish of the soul.
Winter is forming,
three years of hiding I must take.
From ash an destruction and the forests never to awake.
