In the shadowed heart of winter’s breath,
Lies a whisper of the Russian death.
Cold winds carry tales untold,
Of silent nights and hearts grown cold.

The birch trees stand in solemn grace,
Guardians of time’s relentless pace.
With each snowflake that kisses the earth,
Echoes the story of life’s rebirth.

The moon casts its eerie glow,
On fields where the forgotten go.
In the stillness, a chilling song,
Of lives once lived, but now are gone.

Yet in this death, a beauty lies,
A dance beneath the endless skies.
For every end, a new beginning,
In the Russian night, life is spinning.