The pale moon paints a dark horse.
Cold of night his rider.
Let me be, I shout toward the wood,
Toward the wooded bars in the fog.
Should I turn my head against the better days?
My cheek hits my hood,
My lips the glass.
Burgundy from a vine maps my veins.
Yesterday be your name, dread rider!
You hold the days of my youth!
Leave me to my stupor!
The rider upon his night mare rears,
Disappearing into the depths,
And leaving me to the ice of my breath,
To the ice falling upon my chest.
Ride into midnight, dread phantom,
For my future is such as you.