Beneath the silver sky, where shadows loom,
Russian death weaves tales in silent gloom.
A whisper in the frost, a breath so cold,
Stories of life, in darkness enfold.

The icy winds sing a mournful tune,
As souls depart beneath the pale moon.
Snowflakes like tears, descend from above,
In the land of sorrow, where death finds love.

Forgotten graves in the forest deep,
Where ancient spirits silently weep.
In the twilight’s grip, the end does come,
To the rhythm of a ghostly drum.

Yet in this dance, a beauty remains,
In the Russian death, amidst the pains.
A testament to life’s fragile thread,
In the embrace of the cold, where all is said.