When the birds have fallen silent,
and the insects follow suit.
The Wind roars, primal and violent.
The Cold of Winter is absolute.

The Trees stand steadfast in slumber,
the Rivers are frozen still.
The hours of Man are numbered,
Death will have its fill.

The Heart beats with the Warmth of Life,
The veins within will slow.
The Soul cut out from flesh like a knife,
The Final Peace we shall know.

Eyes freeze solid against the chill,
Marrow ices in the bone.
Winter must take, and shall what it will,
The Warmth of Life unknown.