Meagre trees in the shrouds, as old as the stones....
Mourners of abandon'd love, forever their woes shall growsilent.
O how many times may the moon has shone - reflected in theseblack lakes?
Should it be that can hear, the woes of those who ceased theirlifes?
O so old they are... they bare the neverending grief...
Ancient bitter beauty
Lost is the hope of those, who walk the moors with pain inheart.
...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