Dargaard

I call forth the cold,
The coming signs of winter.
The coming signs of winter.
Black claw-like hands raised to the sky.
Silhouettes of trees with no more leaves,
Growing on their long lean twigs.
Soul mirrors showing me,
A shadowed face.
Waters frozen and rugged, unmoved.
Cloth, white, is falling on the ground.
Snow from the sky; trying to hide,
The face of the earth.
Thousand daggers are piercing my skin
Winds from the north, alone in the skies.
I call forth the cold,
The coming signs of winter.