The snow is early, hushing up the land;
a cloak of silence’s unrelenting grip.
It seems the sun has failed to understand
the consequences of its yearly trip.
Sequestered by the snow, the open hill
idyllic once but now so desolate;
assailed by wintry winds that wail and chill,
the trembling trees lie low till they abate.
The river flows, undaunted by the cold;
it has to leave this bleak and dreary place
while others stay not daring to be bold
in fear of retributions they may face.
To leave or stay, there must be no remorse;
Indeed, in life a man decides his course.
