Beneath the shroud of glacial dread No bloom remains, all color fled In stillborn sleep the world is bound A tomb of frost, no pulse, no sound White knives of wind carve through the stone Fangs of the frost, marrow to bone Trees stand as crypts in their silent decay Their limbs reaching skyward in frozen dismay No blood runs in the veins of the hills Just ice in the heart where the silence kills The sun is a ghost, pale and withdrawn Each breath is a dirge, each step—forgotten Beneath the shroud of glacial dread No bloom remains, all color fled In stillborn sleep the world is bound A tomb of frost, no pulse, no sound Ashen skies weep needles of glass Time halts, entombed in a frozen grasp The stream is a scar where once it sang Now silent, blackened, and stiffly hangs Flesh turns to stone, thought turns to mist Hope cracks like bark in the permafrost’s fist The soul hibernates in a hollow shell As winter chants its sacred spell No fire, no feather, no breath, no seed Only silence and snow, only cold to bleed Here in the realm where all things cease Winter reigns in lifeless peace
