Grief and Anguish

Sorrow and anguish led a fine young lad into the swamp Though, to be honest, he wasn't all that fine But still, you feel a bit bad for the guy Dying isn't exactly something you want to do He looked barely seventeen years old Hadn't drunk his fill, hadn't truly loved A cold wind howled above him, like a wild boar or a wolf The little pines shed their rusty needles The little pines shed their rusty needles All around, looking stern and sullen, the gloomy forest knitted its brows All around were rotten tussocks and the popping of swamp bubbles Well damn, what a stinking mess, the guy's optimism left him And to mind come fairy tales of demons and ghouls A cold wind howled above him, like a wild boar or a wolf The little pines shed their rusty needles The little pines shed their rusty needles And the foul-smelling mire pulled the young body down The damp, thickening darkness unleashed his tight-held sobs When suddenly a frail aspen managed to reach out its branches And our hero grabbed hold of them with a fierce, desperate grip A cold wind howled above him, like a wild boar or a wolf The little pines shed their rusty needles The little pines shed their rusty needles I too was in that swamp, I saw the bent aspen Whose stripped branches wove into a mournful wreath Centimeter by centimeter, I felt the vicious mire The one that treated the young lad so unceremoniously A cold wind howled above him, like a wild boar or a wolf The little pines shed their rusty needles The little pines shed their rusty needles