What will become of me?
Where will i go?
When the high hill paths are closed to me,
Escape, blocked in with snow.

Shall i now live in barren tundra?
And wait for new spring thaws.
Or anticipate the thunder,
So board up all my doors.

To risk the high hill paths,
At this late time of year.
Or barricade myself in thoughts,
Squalid solitude; and fear.

See one path leads to heaven,
And one leads straight to hell.
Do you know what will become of me?
I Promise i wont tell.