The fog lies thick over grey-turned fields,
a monument to fading life,
there's little left that safely shields,
from wind which cuts just like a knife.

Atop the mountains signs of snow,
early as the sun of spring,
a sun which now can barely glow;
its foe has just been crowned the king.

The rule is brutal, grim and harsh;
there is but one end once it starts,
a lifeless world, a grievous marsh,
remnant parts of silenced hearts.

In its midst a wail as hope is lost;
which barely leaves a simple yearn,
this rule at far too great a cost,
an endless wait for life's return.