---

On the winter day, on every day of our lives,

On the day when the ground was chained with barrenness,

The maiden was walking through the cold fields of my life.

There’s an old, frightening spirit in a beautiful young body.

She can hear the sound of the dead and unborn,

She can hear the screaming of defeated enemies,

And the murmur of flooded kingstones,

She can hear the cry of unrealized conceiving,

And death of worlds and groan of burning cross,

You can hear the breath of the stars, that aren’t shining.

You can hear the breath of those who despaired again

And the maiden with exhausted eyes,

Cherished her silence

Listening to the groan of pain.

She’s carrying prize for you

She’s silently cold,

And prize that’s equal to death – it’s for the hero

She moved on, through dead fields.

And every step is bringing me closer to her…