Every day is counted,
every hour marks its tread,
the passing exceeding slow,
of lives tied by tenuous threads,
when empty hours of boredom,
fill the frozen dark,
and dark thoughts of boding,
fill my vacant mind
when the purposelessness of it all,
questions my brooding soul,
what for and where from,
whither to and why,
I ask, but answers none,
come to my restless thought,
but yet we lie under these rocks,
in this frozen waste,
each bearing a sordid banner,
of prejudice and hate,
they across the mountain’s line,
and I upon my shale,
and each blames the other,
for blinded, stilted fate,
to live for, or to die,
each in petty acts,
embroiled, unthinking, enmeshed,
by past and future deeds,
by distrust of man for man,
in solitude, enmity breeds.