The raw wind curses past my frozen feet
As I tread through the damp ash of cold sludge
Whispers of adventure tempting but sweet
Towards my fate I continue to trudge
Frosted ice on round pebbles meets the sea
Slick moss matted with snow covering rocks
I brush my hand on the lime green algae
Waves glide to my ankles, soaking my socks
Rugged lava fields spitting rusted lies
My aching fingers sifting fine black sand
Grey clouds striding across the war torn skies
Lightning rumbling and quaking poor Iceland
But still, with treacherous beauty of sin
Tectonic plates parting but close within