The mist unfolds its veil

as the night falls in the forest

The moisty wind forces the trees

to sing their sorrow.

For centuries they are standing still

like a petrified dream.

Traped bodies in a wooden web,

tall towers of another epoch.

This sweet melancholy

that is brought by the precious memory

The Pale Beauty of the Past

is kept in the whisper of the wind.

Only the fragile heart

can understand the charm of the old.

The best things in life are those we can't

have yet, still we hope.

Blessed will be the day

when the circle will be complete.

Then the song of the muse will be heard

again the mourning of the trees will stop.

This sweet melancholy

that is brought by the precious memory

The Pale Beauty of the Past

lost in the vortex of time.