You break the spirits and do not rebuild them.
You are as a harsh tongue to virgin ears.
You kill by cold,
Leaving no evidence of your murder,
Letting the snow and ice cover up all the green and good.
You must surely dislike heat, since you freeze all you touch (the curse of Midas).
You destroy even the strongest wills.
How do you have such influence,
Such a connection to depression and apathy?
The world bows to you, and begs to let it live.
Do you laugh at the cries, the pleas for help?
Must you fill my heart with ice,
Stain my hands with soot?
This is the path to pain.
You have broken me, chilled my hands and toes,
Then kicked me while I was down.
I curse you heavily,
But it makes no difference, you ignore my tongue
And frost me with depressed thoughts
You strong winter are the death to us all.
You are the nightmare of the soul,
You are silent with death in your touch.
You, bastard, are my enemy.
Enemy of my spirit and will.
You crush the joy I once embraced
You force me to the indoors,
To huddle next to fires of wood, coal, and trash,
As the dirty bum I've become.
Why do you harm the meek? Why do you kill the small?
What have we done to deserve your icy fists around our necks?
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