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In whispers of wind with no dawn near.

Shadows burn without regret or fear.

Blood beneath snow leaves a blackened trace.

In silence, the final resting place.

Ancient ages walk without sound.

In frozen sleep beneath the ground.

Fields lie barren, eyes gone dim.

Hatred feeds on the mountain’s hymn.

Beneath the crust of an icy heart.

White runes scatter, torn apart.

The sky collapses, the sun decays.

Into the void, all drifts away.

At end of day, when time stands still,

The last spark fades, against its will.

No return, no voice, no name

the final winter lays its claim.