Meagre trees in the shrouds, as old as the stones....
Mourners of abandon`d love, forever their woes shall grow silent.
O how many times may the moon has shone - reflected in these black lakes?
Should it be that can hear, the woes of those who ceased their lifes?
O so old they are... they bare the neverending grief...
Age-old miserability
Ancient bitter beauty
Lost is the hope of those, who walk the moors with pain in heart.
...and all joy it sinks, burried deep, forever presumed dead.