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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