The trees in this wood are silver and straight,
I am lost, and it is late.
It’s getting dark, the frost is here,
Calls for help, they disappear.
Words rise like vapour into night,
White mist curling, futile sight.
Somewhere close a wolf does cry
And now I know death is nearby.
I stumble on past trunk, past bough,
No one will come, I’m sure of that now.
And should death meet me here alone
He’ll find his work already done;
My heart is useless, my soul is crushed
There’s nothing left but bones and dust.


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