cold are both, the hands and the bones,
cold is even the sleep lying into the grave:
never will there be awakening on stone bed,
never before the sun and gloomy moon will die.
swallowed up by black wind, even the star will die.
and here the brink of despair will lie,
'till when the obscure master won't intervene by his hand
on the withered earth and on inhuman sea...
Apparently a translation of the Barrow-wight's incantation.