Funeral winds blow through the snowy land
Frost bites under the skin and blood coagulates in the veins
Somewhere in the distance, howling of wolves is to be heard
Children of the night are lurking in their sites
A landscape so mysterious and magical,
Decrepit by misery and fright
Where the old count survives deep in the mountains
During cold and long nights
Inside his dwelling he remembers that day
When the moon is full and casts its light
Then all around they know
That each year
The ball of vampires invites its guests to a feast