When the days get shorter in the village and blackness spreads its fangs
Wintry wind blows away the leaves of autumn and the chimneys emit dense smoke
Within the swamplands, little green flames begin to shimmer in the bogs
Crawling above beech roots through the cold earth up to the crossroads
One can see them among the farmhouses and round the wayside shrine they float
With silent moaning they lure the gullible into a treacherous death in mud and thorns
Those are will-o'-the-wisps, souls of the unborn wandering the land and heralding the arrival of frost