My snow-clad soul in winter´s storm
whirling by, a vague deception,
its crystal prison all but shaping form:
a frost-flaked foul protection.

"Oh were these skies mere vaults of grey
and blatant shields from memories of light!"
Cries all too ready - I, my habit´s prey -
blind-folded toward space and stainless bright.

Yet, ocean´s rolling tides below
sing laughter, roar with protest, pain,
skies and horizons merge to blow
a pompous strike at a deceipt so vain!

Mere vanity to man are loss and leisure
Raise, pray, thy head! and find in love thy treasure.