Winter lived in a cottage on a hill by the forest.
She pickled snowballs in a birch barrel.
She spun yarn, she wove canvases,
She forged icy bridges over rivers.
Chorus:
An icy roof, a creaking door,
Prickly darkness outside of the rough walls.
Once you cross the threshold, you see frost everywhere,
And the bluest blue fog in the windows.
Winter hunted, forged silver,
And placed the crescent moon into a crystal pail.
She sewed fur coats for the trees, opened paths for sleighs,
And then hurried back to rest in her cottage.
Chorus:
An icy roof, a creaking door,
Prickly darkness outside of the rough walls.
Once you cross the threshold, you see frost everywhere,
And the bluest blue fog in the windows.