Spilling into the snow; leaving patterns of lace.
Nobody understood the pain
That shot through his every cell and vein.
How many hours had he spent toiling
The blisters on his hands were boiling!
And yet he slaved always away
Every night and every day.
The work was forever the same
But he never earned any fame.
Even in times of good that are great
Everyone has to meet their fate.
When time comes for the youth to reach his
The only thing people have to think about is this:
When you are the only one to burry the dead
There is no one to sprinkle dirt on your head.