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Cold the winter blows on this barren white mourn.
No single soul would face it they dare
But still under a naked tree it’s sworn.
Alas, on the marrow there stands a chair
Upon which she watches snow fall alone
Painted in white she looks for little hope,
For this winter he shall never atone.
Her stone cold hands grasp onto her last rope;
In the icy air she is left to swing
While he remains home warmed in passion.
For who could predict that this snow white fling
Would have ended without any compassion.
A pure white world of chilling gray snow
Shines with gelid memories of winters ago.