Cold misty winter, late afternoon The time is short, is running low On the river's surface, appears a mill It sunk a long, long time ago
The old, lame miller goes ashore I know what he's searching for
Death, pain,agony Famin is spread all through the land Death, pain,agony The white fog is carried by the air
Pale, bony fingers search through the fields They scratch out nourishing seed The wicked miller fills his bags With all the stolen winter wheat
He grinds the corn and flour fills the air Flour turns to fog bringing hunger and dispair
Death, pain,agony....
Everytime when this fog appears There'll be no harvest only hunger and tears
Death, pain, agony....
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