(After the fall of the warming age) When north winds loosed their ancient chain, The world recalled its past in pain; The steel grew still, the rivers froze, And silence fell where no one knows. The storm descended, vast and pale, Through city spire and mountain vale; Its voice was old, without remorse— A god unmade yet set its course. Four towers met the cutting breath, Each reared to barter life for death: One held old bones, one elder’s claim, Two living men to meet their shame. “Here,” cried crowds, “their works were done— *They* sundered pact and poisoned sun; The storms *they* sowed now reap them whole, Cold judgment on the nation’s soul.” The people prayed—no mercy came; The frost entombed each vaunted name. Ice sealed their crowns, their glories gone, And still the storm went moving on. For countless hands had shaped that hour; Their comfort fed the engines’ power. Now every hearth, each sleeping town, Must wear the ice their choices crown.
