The harsh cold night crawls in, Dragging behind the lazy fog, an old man's gin; The stars are blinded by, Nowhere to see, Nowhere to sigh. An age-old tree surrenders without a fight, For it knows well than to mock the night; The rivers, the lakes and the oceans are as still as silence, For they know the blinded stars make a cruel sense. The flickering fire in a molded wood, The cozy warmth in tattered gloves of wool, Stares with burning fear, As the cold dark night draws near. The night swallows the land of green, Spreading unnatural fear with such keen; A mother and a father hugs their children, Fighting fear and gruesome cold of the grim night, Oh, but in vain! As the Death grieves in their name.