We whisper poetry in the snow,

waiting for the cold (century) to go.

Snow drifts will compile, as we cry and smile,

ice will crystallize, while we cry and smile.

The children will grow.

They’ll lie down in the snow.

We will loose our sight.

We will loose our minds.

The young will grow old.

They will die in the snow.

Our bright skulls will go dull.

We will smile for the shovel, smile for the shovel.

We will say years ago we once had tears.

We will say years ago we once had teeth.

We’ll look down on the snow for a hundred years.

Then the clouds will release us, and give us peace.