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Walking under a sorrow moon

in a snowy forest, at the night.

I'm a cold invisible soul remembered by

many as a living being in the past.

The winds are silent,

graves are full.

I feel the cold on my pale dead skin,

I smell the stench of my rotting dead skin.

I feel the embrace of grief,

with the cruelest fate.

I feel the embrace of grief,

with the cruelest fate.

The fate of the dead.

Here I'm under the moon, next to the tree

that covers my tombstone.

The candles are extinguished, and the last memories

appear as my light turns to blindness.

That's my funeral.

That's the cruelest fate, the fate of the dead.

My final death.

That's the cruelest fate, the fate of the dead.