The King of Winter shrieks the houses down
And claps his hand to earth, which fells the stars
And leaves them sparkling on the icy ground.
Below, the frost writes in men’s bodies, scars
From battles of an age ago, from days
Spent carving life from barren ground, from time
That ran against their desperate faces. Gaze
Upon your death in white and know your crime!
For man was not meant to survive in pride
And in despite of every season’s turn.
A plague that knows not how to humbly bide
Nor anything of patience, but will learn
The King’s command, or else be beaten still
Into submitting man to winter’s will.

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