Pitiless Winter, and game is rare,
Rivers are frozen, the earth is bare,
And breath hangs grey in the biting air,
But life is stirring, the village too,
Hunters all, there is work to do.
The mammoth are moving, and so must you.
The forest calls.

The endless waiting at dead of night,
The aching limbs in the morning light,
The find, the chase, and the final fight.
Arrows and axes, mighty blows,
Crazy joy in the blood that flows,
The fearsome rage of his dying throes,
And the mammoth falls.

Laughing and boasting, feasts galore,
Season of plenty, meat in store,
The grief for those who will eat no more.
-------------------------------
The village is silent, sunk in sleep.
The hunt is a memory all will keep,
Some to rejoice, and a few to weep.
(w-a-a-a-a-ah)
An infant bawls.

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