In a foggy shroud of dreams
In a preacious couterpane
If the ancient spirit grey Ural
Lulled beautiful cruel gods

Are in these mountains
Among moss-grown blocks
Are cries of pain and triumph
Will be remained in rock forever

Only sticky blood won't leave sign
In a deep of gems is one's hot now
To look for the last time
A severe dread low sky
Entrust stone with soul
To wander in cold hall
To roam in gloomy ice
Among illusory emerald's fire

Under mountain in hall is my malachite throne
And chains of heavy copper ore

Under wood curtain are the grave rest
Autumn fire, mournful gloom at the trunks
Not cosy, quiet, tired, feast of souls
who come out from mossy rotten halls
Decaying glare of faded eyes
Chilly rippling shadows
The rustle of foliage is voice

Their fate is roaming to come back into thicket
I leave a soul's piece in forest for the killed

In the purple woods is my pine throne
And wings of clear pure miss

I won't reach swampy singing meadows
I won't be crowned with the wreath
Of radiant flowers and shining grass