Entrapped, in freezing mire here I've stood,
surrounded by dwarf birches, hoary reeds...
Now, facing down the pale and gibbous Moon
I'm sinking, stiff with cold and in too deep.
Cruel frost splits tree-trunks.
Wolven howls are carried by cold air from far away.
The wind – it softly whispers while it prowls.
The gurgling mire swallows me this day.
Ice lays a cover onto my damp grave,
the snow will form a proper burial mound.
I only leave behind this sombre lay
that moorlands sing from deep beneath the ground.

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