Whispering wind’oer the moon.
Then she blows silent moon.
There she sails through the sky;
Then she knew I would lie;
Waiting till the whisperer awoke,
Till the words in my mouth would choke (us).
These words that you spoke;
These words that I spoke.
White mist, elventale,
Spread the word around.
That ice and snow and cold hail,
Would strike me down to the ground
And that I sailed down the river
And she sailed down the river,
On the boat of envy
Whispering lea of forlorn reveries,
There they dine in fine revelries,
Wine to wine, glass to lips;
Crimson wine kissing crimson lips
Touched by her fingertips,
Trembling like the swaying trees,
Caught in winter’s breeze.
White mist shadowing the glade,
Concealing it with winter’s sleep.
There, she tries to deceive (but whom)
He who has known her essence.
Then caught in a glass jar is the vapour
Of the lady with the heart of winter
Dripping with frozen hunger,
That may feed on unsuspecting strangers.
Glorious days of the sun,
They come to their end; oh, her wrathful son,
The child she bore with the chill of winter
Brought alive to this mellowing world.
And his footsteps leave a trail cold.
That yonder years of the same, too are old.
And this child with a flowing white beard,
His eyes are like cold daggers of fear.
White mist, towering the mounts,
Crisscrossing the vengeful narrow mountain passes.
And now she bears another offspring;
He’s the end of days, the end of spring,
Of springs yet to come.
And winter’s chill is not his father
But the hot warmth of the sky-the stinging sun.
And it’s the coming of the aeon’s twilight.
It’s the coming of the harbinger of doom.
He is the harbinger of doom.
[/b]
