In the vast expanse of the Russian night,
Silent echoes whisper the tales untold,
Beneath the stars, where shadows take flight,
The chilling winds weave stories of old.

Frosted breaths linger in the icy air,
As the moon casts its silver glow,
Ghostly figures dance with gentle care,
On the frozen ground where memories flow.

The ancient trees stand as solemn guards,
Watching over the land of eternal sleep,
Their branches reach like mournful bards,
Singing of dreams buried deep.

In the heart of the endless Siberian plain,
The whispers of the past still softly call,
Through the snow, through the wind, through the rain,
Russian death speaks its truth to all.