In the land where cold winds whisper tales,
Echoes of past sorrows gently wail,
Through fields of snow, where shadows tread,
The silent dance of the Russian dead.

Beneath the stars, in endless night,
Their memories flicker, pale and bright,
Ghostly figures in a frost-laden trance,
In winter’s embrace, they waltz and prance.

The birch trees weep with frozen tears,
Carrying whispers of ancient fears,
A requiem sung by the northern breeze,
Chilling the soul, bringing hearts to freeze.

Yet in this dance of quiet despair,
Lies a beauty haunting, beyond compare,
For in the silence, they find their peace,
In Russian death, their spirits release.