Winter is forming,
three years of hiding I must take.
From ash an destruction and the forests never to awake.
From the sky they fell, tormenting this mortal realm.
A death overcoming both peasant and king.


Lonely winds now whisper, into the trees they speak,
The voice of the fallen carried on the leaves.
What�s left of carnage, of war and decease?
All that remains are desolate wastelands and anguish of the soul.


Winter is forming,
three years of hiding I must take.
From ash an destruction and the forests never to awake.

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