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Cold misty winter, late afternoon |
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The time is short, is running low |
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On the river's surface, appears a mill |
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It sunk a long, long time ago |
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The old, lame miller goes ashore |
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I know what he's searching for |
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Death, pain,agony |
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Famin is spread all through the land |
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Death, pain,agony |
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The white fog is carried by the air |
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Pale, bony fingers search through the fields |
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They scratch out nourishing seed |
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The wicked miller fills his bags |
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With all the stolen winter wheat |
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He grinds the corn and flour fills the air |
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Flour turns to fog bringing hunger and dispair |
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Death, pain,agony.... |
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Everytime when this fog appears |
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There'll be no harvest only hunger and tears |
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Death, pain, agony.... |
