In a foggy shroud of dreams In a preacious couterpane If the ancient spirit grey Ural Lulled beautiful cruel gods Are in these mountains Among moss-grown blocks Are cries of pain and triumph Will be remained in rock forever Only sticky blood won't leave sign In a deep of gems is one's hot now To look for the last time A severe dread low sky Entrust stone with soul To wander in cold hall To roam in gloomy ice Among illusory emerald's fire Under mountain in hall is my malachite throne And chains of heavy copper ore Under wood curtain are the grave rest Autumn fire, mournful gloom at the trunks Not cosy, quiet, tired, feast of souls who come out from mossy rotten halls Decaying glare of faded eyes Chilly rippling shadows The rustle of foliage is voice Their fate is roaming to come back into thicket I leave a soul's piece in forest for the killed In the purple woods is my pine throne And wings of clear pure miss I won't reach swampy singing meadows I won't be crowned with the wreath Of radiant flowers and shining grass