In the cold embrace of a Russian night,
Shadows whisper tales of ancient fright.
Snowflakes fall, a silent mourners’ breath,
Veiling the land in a shroud of death.

Beneath the moon’s pale, ghostly glow,
The spirits of the fallen flow.
In icy winds, their voices blend,
Echoes of lives that met their end.

Among the pines, their memories stay,
In silent woods, where shadows play.
Frost-kissed ground, a frozen tear,
Marks the place they once held dear.

The Russian death, a solemn tale,
In winter’s grip, where hearts grow pale.
Yet in the silence, hope may rise,
As dawn breaks through the somber skies.