Meagre trees in the shrouds,
As olde as the stones.
Mourners of abandonåd love,
Fornever their woes shall grow silent.
O how many times may the moon has shone -
Reflected in these black lakes?
Should it be that we 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.
O so old they are
They bare the neverending grief
Age - old miserability,
A bitter beauty thrilling me
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