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Description
The most romantic thing I can think to do,
Is to be buried with you.
The nighty owls howl
For the haunting moon,
And my lone wolf leaves her paw marks at your feet.
On the tombstone, our names tangle,
Just like our ashend legs in the soil.
An age fig shall grow,
feed on our soul.
We will glow,
As icles on its branch,
And with its leaves, we chant.

Years shall go by,
Fresh snow,
Spring bloom and then forest shall cover our place.
Foxes,
Red as passion they flame, will be our guest.
Tease, cuddle, make love they will.
That when the moon is full,
I can rest my hair on your shoulder,
And knowingly smile:
"Look, how much like them,
We used to be?"

Description
The most romantic thing I can think to do,
Is to be buried with you.
The nighty owls howl
For the haunting moon,
And my lone wolf leaves her paw marks at your feet.
On the tombstone, our names tangle,
Just like our ashend legs in the soil.
An age fig shall grow,
feed on our soul.
We will glow,
As icles on its branch,
And with its leaves, we chant.

Years shall go by,
Fresh snow,
Spring bloom and then forest shall cover our place.
Foxes,
Red as passion they flame, will be our guest.
Tease, cuddle, make love they will.
That when the moon is full,
I can rest my hair on your shoulder,
And knowingly smile:
"Look, how much like them,
We used to be?"