Оh, milord, why your lady keeps rubbing her beautiful hands?
What is this that she tries to erase from  her delicate skin?
Why she walks as a ghost every night through the moonlit moorlands
Far away from your castle, all alone in the kingdom of wind?
Oh, milord, I remember - she was such a joy, such a mirth
She could sing like a robin and dance like Beltane magic flames
And her mirror retained her reflection as a noose holds a bird
Never willing to part with the lovely imprint of her face.
Oh, milord, why her voice is a whisper and her eyes're deadly cold?
Whom she buried in that namеless grave at the end of a graveyard?
Why her wreath was replaced with the crown of glistening gold
All encrusted with gemstones as crimson as droplets of blood?
Oh, milord, why she couldn't be happy with her life as it was,
Why she listened to witches and turned into a servant of Death?
Look at her - all her hopes are gone, all her feelings are frozen 
And only shards of her mirror still show that girl in the wreath...