Down the mountains, after nightfall
Mystical the air feels,
The trees let their remaining foliage
ruffle in the wind
As it turns darker.
A voice is always heard,
A staccato singing
And very sweet
Soft, mellifluous, but
flows monotonously, as if
Speaking of her own untimely death
To her lover—still alive.
In this ghostly milieu,
Flickers a feeble gleam
In the dead of the night
But the next morn, you see
Nothing unusual, everything fine.
Conifers down the hills,
Wild flowers fragrant and fresh,
Birdies flying high and the
Shepherd bringing sheep to graze.
But that midnight again
Appears the dim flickering light
And the maiden sings…
Winter ends, and also ends
The enigmatic air, but
Only till next winter!
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