My path ahead, troubled;
through the blankets of snow, I plod.
I find myself in the wood,
boughs shrouded in fog.

The mist like a fever,
weighing down my soul.
I come to the fork in the road,
where I dither and brood.

Awake, yellow sun!
Cast your rays of light.
Rid me from this veil,
my peril, and plight.

Sweet mornings song,
notes carried through the wind.
My path now clear,
no struggle within.