Alone, awash amidst this sea of spruce
And pine I sit. Into the rising fog
I gaze as if to see some mystic realm.
Enchantment drew me to this holy hill
By promising a glimpse of heaven's bliss,
But haze and heavy clouds obscure my view.
The gloom, my doom it is, I think, to see.
What is it like to dream of future days
And not of nightmares past? The wintry blasts
Come howling through my brain. Yet on the winds
Of pain a solitary snowflake floats.
Someday the snow will fall and bury all
My shame beneath its pristine flow, and I
Will know at last a season of new hope.