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In the snowfield, blind from the white
The breath of the prey is a cloud
Of smooth mist vapor and shambling gait
Observed from beneath a cold shroud

Still is the terror that lies in the ice
Of muscle, of brass and of bone
Awaiting the moment of absolute calm
His focus, the quarry, alone

All fear the White Death!

The last moments, dead in the sights
The prey turns his face to the sky
Sensing the danger, but blind to it all
A shot between heartbeats as time freezes still
Then he dies...

All fear the White Death
Certain as the winter’s breath

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