Meagre trees in the shrouds,
As olde as the stones...
Mourners of abandoned love,
Fornever their woes shall grow silent

O, how many times may the moon has shone
Reflected in these black lakes?
Should it be that we can hear,
The woes of those who ceased their lives?

O, so old they are...
They bare the neverending grief
Age-old miserability
Ancient bitter beauty

Lost is the hope of those
Who walk the moors with pain in heart
...and all joy it sinks,
Buried deep, forever presumed dead

O, so old they are...
They bare the neverending grief
Age-old miserability
A bitter beauty thrilling me