Meagre trees in the shrouds,
as olde as the stones....
mourners of abandonĺd love,
fornever their woes shall grow silent.
O how many times may the moon has shone -
reflected in these black lakes?
should it be that we can hear,
the woes of those who ceased their lifes?
O so old they are...
they bare the neverending grief...
age-old miserability
ancient bitter beauty
Lost is the hope of those,
who walk the moors with pain in heart.
...and all joy it sinks,
burried deep, forever presumed dead.
O so old they are...
they bare the neverending grief...
age - old miserability,
a bitter beauty thrilling me