They were the legends of minstrels 
That were the living inthe wathering of the wind 
They were the voices of death mountains 
That were echoed on the slopes 
They were the wind bringing souls making 
Among the black roses throwing by laments 
Last fullmoon birds were flapping to immortality 
It was not the last culpa wine that shut the heaven door 
With the first sign of fall nature was brightened up looking earth and with sorrow 
Sky was washing up with fullmoon as the darkness has fallen down