In the black season of deep winter
A storm of waves is roused
Along the expanse of the world.
Sad are the birds of every meadow-plain
Except the ravens that feed on crimson blood
At the clamour of harsh winter –
Rough, black, dark, smoky;
Dogs are vicious in cracking bones;
The iron pot is put on the fire
After the dark black day.
(old celtic poetry)