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Frozen is its essence, foreboding in presence,
A stark, vast and tundraless expanse;
Of frosted troughs and rises, icebound to the horizon,
Frozen planes where not a soul’s advanced.

This bleak land forms my prison,
Though it shan’t yet earn my grave.
Not on this day.

The distance ever beckons,
its resounding voice restless,
Muffling the cries of weakening legs;
To consume it’s sole oddity and proliferate vacuity:
Frozen planes where not a soul shall stand.

This glacier’s become my captor,
Though it shan’t yet earn my grave.

Despite its bitter chill,
Its biting, wintry air,
Its ever-spiraling chasms,
It shall not earn my grave.

And though the cold has fallen with ceaseless, dire persistence,
In cold I’ll be and forever stand,
The Warrior of the Winter.
It may suck the air I breathe,
may press my strength to stand,
In frost I breathe, on glaciers stands
I, The Warrior of the Winter.

May suck the air I breathe,
May press my strength to stand,
May dim my inner flame,
But shall not earn my grave.

The floor beneath me ruptures,
Agitated shards dissever,
I leap from piece to piece,
But the ice goes on forever,
And always I carry forwards,
And dance this eternal dance,
For I intend to outlive the ice, the earth, and time itself,
And live forever.

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