The flowers I see are dead indeed,

The trees are dry and broken.

They do not grow there is no seed,

And all has turned to winter.

The icy cold is silent,

But still the fire keeps within me.

The harsh colds are violent,

Yet life stings continuously.

The awful winds bind my strength,

And falter me with each step.

The wretched ice increasing the length

Of which I must cross.

Oblivion comes, I must defend,

Till then I will await my end.