A snow mountain should be white.
It doesn’t make sense to drops of red blood.
Why is everything not the way it should be?
Probably it’s just a trick of my eyes,
To see red blood flowing where there is only white.
Somebody told me:
“It is the blood of the demons who have trampled the snow”.
But I don’t think so.
I resolved to follow the track of the flowing blood
To the top of the mountain.
But suddenly halfway up,
The white expanse before me turned into flowing red blood.
I could see nothing but red.
The blood lake stole my courage.
He must have been the old man of the mountain.
White a beard of red and white
And blood colour of ice.
The walking stick he was carrying
Like a dagger pierced my heart.
He said, “I made this mountain of blood
With the anger that burst my heart and lungs.
I wept for the Land of Snow.
And when my tears were exhausted,
Drops of blood, drop by drop.
Formed the blood lake.
You are a shameless son of the snows,
You are the flowing blood of the snow mountain.”
When I heard this
My body trembled and my heart pounded.
I thought of killing the old man of the mountain
With a bullet from my gun.
I became despondent,
And the bones of my body sink into the blood stained mountain,
The flowing blood of my body mingles with the lake of blood.
This is the end of life,
The life of the end.