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Part I: The Ice

It's called 'The Ice' by those who know,
A special place of frost and snow,
Of beauty to delight the eyes,
Tho' cold as death, a pure surprise.
'The Ice.' But it's not ice, you know,
Just years and years of falling snow.
Drifting, packing, never melting,
Forever accumulating.
All that beauty with bitter cold,
To test the soul and make one old.
Has never thawed, and never will,
Eternal place of wintry chill.


In summer, when the air is clear,
Distant landscapes of white appear,
Laying under a sky of blue,
Reflected light, a dazzling view.
But cloud the air with fog of snow,
Caused by the wind of constant blow,
Nothing is seen, except the white,
Even that, exceedingly bright.
These are the times to make one doubt
Up from down, a total whiteout!
Care now to stay upon the trail,
Or else the way you lose and fail.


The winter is an endless night,
Not always dark, but shadowed bright,
Lit with stars and aurora's glow,
Reflected on the frost and snow.
Now add the blow to take the light,
To hide the stars, to lose the sight,
The coldest winds, the darkest way,
Night storms are worse than those by day.
A cold hard wind, with snow like sleet,
Removes the sight of hands and feet!
Careful, careful to stay the trail,
Or else the way you lose and fail.


Part II, The Lost

In the stark land of constant cold,
There is a tale that must be told,
The sad story of a soul lost,
A body hiding in the frost.
A man who had walked the flagged trail,
Blown by the wind as if a sail,
The crunch of snow beneath his feet,
Gave the wind song a solemn beat.
Hours of drinking now at an end,
Beers to chase a rye whiskey blend.
The drunken talk got a bit rough,
Finally, he yelled “I've had enough!”


He left in anger, left in haste,
To walk across the icy waste,
To trudge a trail that marked the way,
To his abode, a mile away.
The blow of snow like bits of sleet,
Obscured the trail beneath his feet,
The night storm had not abated,
A danger he'd underrated.
In fog of snow and dark perverse,
To use a light would make sight worse,
Between the poles, blind he must cope,
His mittened hand sliding on rope.


A drunk stumble and that was all,
To loose his hand, to take the fall,
Gone was the rope, lost in the black,
His only way to stay the track.
Not to worry, there was no fear,
He'd just stumbled; the rope was near,
Now he stood, his hand reached there,
To find nothing, nothing but air.
Oh, wait. Was the wind at my face?
His pulse skipped, then thumped a fast race.
Search now, search now, to find the trail,
Or else the way you lose and fail.

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