A voice like hundred whispers spoken loud,
In land of ****** snow as it was sown,
And drifting question it forever bound,
A yew tree seeking home in ice and stone.

In forest grown of golden solid woods,
The channels frozen under ice still hum,
With eerie wails that silence songs of birds,
Through ever present, ever crooning thrum.

The voice of forest cast as mighty tool,
The flowing channels, veins in ****** snow,
The wailing question spreading bitter yule,
The yew and stone in rooted steadfast vow.

Through autumn, ice or nature's anguished blow,
Forever glowing life will always flow.